THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


THE  BOARDWALK 


BY 
MARGARET  WIDDEMER 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  ROSE-GARDEN  HUSBAND," 

"THE  WISHING-RING  MAN,"  "THE  OLD 

ROAD  TO  PARADISE,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE  AND  HOWE 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ20,    BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE   AND   HOWE,   INC. 


THE  QUINN  a  BODEN  COMPANY 
RAHWAY.  N.  J. 


Co 

DOCTOR  JAMES   FRANCIS  ACKERMAN 
BEST  AND   KINDEST   OF  DOCTORS  AND   FRIENDS 


2039041 


FOREWORD 

THE   BOARDWALK 

IT  begins  by  the  Allenwood  flume,  where  the  little 
boys  go  to  catch  herring  in  the  spring.  It  stretches 
tfown  for  about  two  miles,  diving  through  the 
Arches  Pavilion,  where  the  young  lovers  go  to  look 
at  the  water  on  lonely  days  when  they  hope  they  will 
not  be  disturbed. 

Further  on  it  passes  Knockers'  Row,  where  the 
middle-aged  women  sit  and  tell  each  other  their 
thoughts  about  the  passersby.  Then  comes  Wesley 
Pavilion,  circled  with  booths  and  full  of  dancers  in 
summer,  most  desolate  of  all  places  in  the  winter. 
Jhen  it  goes  in  a  wide  outward  circle,  as  if  it  were 
not  over-religious,  around  the  roofed  place  in  the 
Grove  where  the  praise  meetings  are  held;  more 
lumpily  and  bumpily,  for  the  Grove  authorities  are 
canny  souls.  They  do  not  replace  their  part  of  the 
Boardwalk  as  often  as  the  Park  Council,  which 
handles  money  not  its  own  and  hence  votes  it  away 
royally  for  improvements. 

After  that  it  passes  the  Grove  pier,  where  the 
vii 


viii  FOREWORD 

old  men  sit  fishing  benignantly,  not  so  much  inter 
ested  in  their  catch  as  pleased  to  be  out  in  the  air 
with  the  sun  and  the  sea. 

It  is  like  a  pattern  of  life. 

In  summer  it  is  crowded.  The  gaily  dressed  people 
surge  up  and  down  it  in  a  long,  sauntering  proces 
sion.  It  is  strung  with  colored  lights  that  from  sea 
look  like  a  long  necklace  of  jewels.  "  It's  a  lovely 
Boardwalk,"  the  summer  people  say  with  all  the  rap 
ture  of  their  two  weeks  off.  We,  waiting  a  little 
impatiently  for  them  to  go,  answer  with  a  trained 
courtesy — for  are  summer  people  not  our  liveli 
hood  ? — that  seems  a  trifle  bored. 

We  are  not  bored;  blase,  a  little  perhaps,  with 
the  tawdrily  exciting  summers  we  have  known  since 
babyhood.  But  the  Boardwalk  is  our  life;  and 
one  doesn't  make  amiable  compliments  about  one's 
life. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CHANGELING      ......      ...      •  3 

ROSABEL  PARADISE     ........  60 

DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL 77 

BLACK  MAGIC      .               IO° 

THE  CONGREGATION I25 

THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART   .       .       .       .       .       •  14$ 

GOOD  TIMES 175 

OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN IQ^ 

DEVIL'S  HALL 22O 


THE  BOARDWALK 


CHANGELING 

BACK  in  the  days  when  Theodora  Woods  and  the 
rest  of  us  were  growing  up,  the  Park  was  less  the 
tawdry  Shopgirls'  Delight  it  is  now.  It  was  still 
known  as  an  excellent  place  to  bring  up  the  children. 
[There  were  daisy  fields  and  sand  meadows  between 
the  jewel-like  little  lakes,  and  in  these  grew  enchant- 
ingly  wild  strawberries  and  white  violets  and  dog 
roses  and  goldenrod  and  anemones,  at  their  proper 
seasons,  for  the  children  to  pick.  You  never  needed 
to  think  of  children,  though,  from  one  meal  to  the 
next,  for  the  place  was  so  safe  then  that  you  could 
send  a  twelve-year-old  daughter  on  an  errand  at 
night  through  a  lonely  mile  of  closed  summer  cot 
tages,  down  to  the  little  cluster  of  living  lights  that 
were  the  village  shops,  knowing  that  she  would  meet 
nothing  worse  than  loneliness  coming  or  going. 

The  Woods  family  settled  there,  like  most  other 
all-the-year-round  people,  because  their  past  was  a 
failure,  and  because  the  Park  was  a  new  little  sum 
mer  resort  with  a  future.  Mr.  Woods  had  tried  a 
half-dozen  things,  from  salesmanship  to  grocery- 
storekeeping,  without  exactly  putting  anything 

3 


4  CHANGELING 

through,  and  the  Park  offered  him  a  fresh  chance. 
He  was  always  beginning  fresh  chances;  he  was  a 
rather  pompous,  ineffective  little  man,  Theo's  father, 
strutting  over  any  trifle  that  came  his  way,  very 
proud  of  his  position  as  head  of  the  family  (it  really 
belonged  to  his  wife),  and  especially  proud  of  his 
wild  flame  of  a  fifteen-year-old  daughter.  He  might 
well  be,  though  she  never  seemed  to  be  in  the  least 
his  doing.  But  his  attitude  apparently  was  that  her 
attributes  were  merely  a  development  and  setting 
forth  of  his  own.  She  seemed  to  the  rest  of  us  like 
a  princess  in  a  peasant's  hut.  But  then  there  is  no 
adoration  like  the  adoration  you  give  some  wonder 
ful  friend  at  fifteen. 

The  eldest  of  four  in  a  maidless  family  may  well 
be  a  drudge,  and  often  is.  But  Theo  wasn't.  She 
did  her  full  share  of  the  housework,  but  she  whisked 
it  through  much  more  competently  than  did  Avalene, 
the  next  sister,  though  Avalene  was  a  plain  and 
patently  industrious  child  who  stayed  lumpily  at 
home  and  seemed  to  toil  a  good  deal.  Theo,  on  the 
contrary,  never  seemed  to  be  doing  anything  hard, 
though  she  stood  high  in  her  classes  in  a  way  that 
tempted  her  teachers  to  drive  her.  But  work,  school 
or  home,  to  gay,  vivid  young  Theo,  was  some 
thing  to  be  hastened  lightly  through  and  forgotten. 


CHANGELING  5 

The  real  business  of  her  full  and  interesting  life  was 
having  a  good  time  with  the  boys. 

It  was  an  innocent,  if  vulgar,  good  time  that  Theo 
and  her  mates  had  with  their  lovers  at  Juliet's  age. 
They  never  touched — indeed,  they  scarcely  knew 
about — the  lower  stratum  of  girls,  those  who  went 
to  the  school  across  the  track,  and  whose  good  times 
sometimes  descended  below  vulgarity.  The  little 
Radnor  Beach  girls,  or  the  dingily-gay  little  souls 
who  lived  in  "  flats  "  in  the  business  district — you 
crossed  such  every  day  on  the  boardwalk,  but  you 
did  not  think  about  them.  You  kept  very  proudly 
to  your  own  "  set." 

Theodora,  and  a  string  of  girls  belonging  to  the 
carefully  demarked  "  set "  of  that  year,  would 
march  down  to  the  boardwalk  after  school,  shoulders 
scornfully  back  and  arms  linked,  laughing  excitedly 
and  chattering  about  the  "  boys."  They  would  meet 
these,  friends  or  acquaintances,  linked  in  a  like  row, 
patrolling  the  boardwalk  in  an  opposite  direction, 
likewise  with  a  certain  scorn  in  their  demeanor. 
There  would  be  a  lifting  of  shoulders,  or  a  louder 
giggle  than  usual,  at  the  encounter,  and  some  brave 
spirit  would  cast  a  mocking  word  to  the  row  of  the 
other  sex.  After  the  second,  or  perhaps  the  third 
crossing,  the  linked  rows  would  fuse,  stretching  all 


6  CHANGELING 

across  the  walk  or  breaking  into  pairs,  as  the  fashion 
of  the  moment  happened  to  be  for  "  crowds  "  or 
"  twosing." 

It  was  "  twosing  "  the  June  before  Theo  was  six 
teen,  the  time  when  her  life  was  at  its  highest  tide. 

"* 

To  grown  people  a  girl  of  fifteen  and  a,,half  is  a 
child  still ;  to  herself  she  is  very  old  and  very  real ; 
more  real,  perhaps,  than  ever  before  or  after,  even 
the  average  girl  of  that  age.  And  Theodora  was 
not  average.  She  was  like  a  girl  of  eighteen,  physi 
cally  and  mentally.  Her  personality  made  an  impact 
that  you  could  not  forget. 

She  was  something  of  a  marvel  to  most  people, 
coming  from  her  rather  dingy,  middle-class  small 
town  family;  but  the  probable  explanation  is  that 
she  was  a  throwback.  There  was  in  the  family  a 
strain  of  very  good  and  vigorous  English  adventur- 
mg  blood. 

Gramma  Coburn  had  run  away  with  Grampa  Co- 
burn,  she  being  a  Squire's  daughter  of  Devon,  and 
he  what  the  Squire  referred  to  until  death  as  "  that 
damn  bagman."  They  had,  of  course,  come  to 
America,  where  the  English  used  to  suppose  caste  to 
be  non-existent,  and  drifted  finally  into  farming. 
The  two  old  people,  with  an  old-maid  daughter, 
dwelt  on  a  farm  near  Red  Bank,  very  much  of  a 


CHANGELING  7 

piece  as  far  as  outward  appearance  went.  Some 
times  Gramma  scolded  Grampa,  but  on  the  whole 
they  got  on  as  well  as  the  average.  Gramma  was 
tall  and  very  brown  and  gaunt  and  wrinkled,  with 
false  teeth  and  an  unashamed  devotion  to  red  flan 
nel,  and  Theo  and  Avalene  found  it  much  easier  to 
be  romantic  about  her  when  she  was  out  of  their 
sight.  She  did  not  look  like  the  aristocratic  old 
ladies  in  English  novels. 

But  one  thing  she  had  done  for  Theo,  at  least; 
her  authentic  Elizabethan  forbears,  the  Sir  Ralphs 
and  Captain  Basils  and  Mistress  Theodoras,  all  ad 
venturous  and  arrogant,  world-wanderers  and  court 
beauties  before  their  twenties  were  near,  had  come 
alive  again  in  this  Theodora.  She  had  a  whip  of 
yellow  hair  in  the  wind,  long  sapphire-colored  eyes 
that  were  insolent  when  they  did  not  laugh,  and  the 
tall,  straight,  beautifully-built  body  that  most  Park 
girls  had  for  a  heritage,  living  as  they  did  outdoors 
between  wind  and  water  all  summer.  Theo  had  also 
the  Elizabethan  combination  of  brilliant  intellect  and 
brilliant  gaiety.  Mind  and  body,  she  was  all  alive, 
and  the  world  was  hers  to  play  with.  She  stood 
out  in  our  minds  like  an  electric  light  among  candles, 
and  carried  us  along  like  a  gay,  ruthless  young 
whirlwind.  Her  attitudes,  her  mannerisms,  stuck  in 


S  CHANGELING 

otir  minds  and  set  the  copy  for  us.  She  knew  it, 
&alf  consciously,  and  it  made  her  gayer  and  more 
princesslike.  She  ruled  still  as  the  winter  came  on, 
thrilled  with  her  own  triumphs. 

Her  father,  eyeing  her,  felt  a  little  uneasy,  and 
as  if  anyone  so  exultant  as  that  with  life  must  be 
in  the  wrong.  Her  mother  thought,  doubtless  with 
wisdom,  that  Theo  must  be  overtiring  herself.  So 
one  evening,  after  a  long  discussion,  they  spoke  to 
her  about  il.  That  is,  her  father  did — in  quite  the 
wrong  way,  of  course. 

"You  been  running  around  with  the  boys  too 
much,"  he  said,  crossly,  over  his  paper,  when  she 
came  in  from  a  party,  calling  back  a  gay  good-by 
to  an  unseen  boy  at  the  door.  "  That's  what  it  is. 
You'll  get  talked  about.  Why  can't  you  behave 
decently,  like  Naomi  Ainslie  or  Olive  Jardine? 
You  don't  see  a  string  of  boys  chasing  around 
them." 

There  was  a  half -reluctant  pride  in  his  girl's 
prowess  even  in  her  father's  snarl.  Theo  felt  it, 
though  the  warning  in  his  words  pricked  her  sensi 
tively-clean  mind  uneasily,  and  sowed  a  little  terror 
there.  She  flung  back  her  victorious  young  yellow 
head  and  answered  as  pertly  as  any  Mistress  Marian 
behind  her : 


CHANGELING  9 

"  They'd  be  glad  enough  to  have  the  boys  if  they 
got  a  chance.  I  don't  see  why  you  need  to  worry, 
I'm  going  to  be  valedictorian  when  we  graduate 
from  High  this  February,  if  you  call  that  neglecting 
my  lessons.  I'm  way  ahead  in  my  classes.  I'm 
making  my  graduating  clothes,  three  dresses.  And 
I  do  lots  more  round  the  house  than  Avie,  and  you 
don't  nag  her." 

This  was  all  so  true  that  her  father  flew  into  one 
of  his  quick  little  nasty  tempers. 

"  I  forbid  you  to  go  to  any  more  parties,  or  be 
out  of  this  house  after  eight,  any  more  till  you 
graduate.  Your  health  won't  stand  it,  and,  anyway, 
I'm  not  going  to  have  folks  talking." 

Her  mother,  heavy,  judicial  and  kind,  backed  up 
her  husband  at  this  point.  All  the  studies  and  par 
ties  and  the  sewing  were  telling  on  Theo. 

"  You  got  to  stop  burning  the  candle  at  both  ends, 
dear.  Come,  you've  lots  of  time  ahead  of  you.  Yon 
can  afford  to  wait  till  you're  grown  up  for  your 
good  times." 

It  was  all  so  old — so  stale !  Theodora,  vibrant  as 
an  overstrained  violin  string,  vivid  as  a  flaring 
candle,  was  all  the  more  rebellious  because  she  knew 
that  when  her  mother  took  a  hand  rebellion  was 
useless. 


io  CHANGELING 

"  I  may  never  have  another  good  time  as  long  as 
I  live,"  she  fought,  backed  against  the  big  old  en 
graving  of  Washington  crossing  the  Delaware, 
which  decked  the  dining-room  where  they  sat.  Her 
eyes  and  lips  burned  bright.  Youth  and  sex-power 
and  life  were  at  their  height  in  her,  and  she  wanted 
to  go  on  using  them.  She  meant  no  evil — she  knew 
nothing  much  about  evil.  Only  our  Northern  con 
vention  of  deferred  youth  pressed  hard  upon  her, 
and  she  wished  to  continue  her  innocent,  exciting 
conquests  of  High  School  boys,  her  rule  over  the 
girls.  And  her  people  talked  about  having  her  wait 
to  grow  up ! 

She  looked  angrily  from  one  to  the  other  of  them, 
sitting  dully  at  the  red-covered  dining-table.  And 
she  felt  inarticulately,  without  knowing  that  she  felt 
it,  that  she  was  alive  and  they  were  not.  Her  father 
was  twitching  in  his  sandy,  irritable  nervousness, 
jerking  at  his  shabby  mustache  with  one  blunt- 
nailed,  knotty  hand.  Her  mother  sat  steadily  sew 
ing  at  little  Milly's  new  petticoat,  stolid  and  tidy  in 
her  dowdy  brown  henrietta  with  its  tatting  collar 
and  steel  buttons.  Avalene,  over  in  her  corner,  stolid 
apparently  also,  and  gabbling  principal  exports  half 
aloud,  was  gloating,  Theo  knew,  behind  her  shel 
tering  geography.  Theo  stood  among  them,  a  de- 


CHANGELING  11 

fiant  young  princess.  But  she  had  to  give  in,  and 
she  knew  it. 

"  I  have  to  do  what  you  say,"  she  conceded  sul 
lenly.  "  I  suppose  I  can  go  over  to  Naomi  Ainslie's 
to  get  my  Latin  in  the  evenings?  Our  room's  cold 
as  ice,  and  everybody  makes  such  a  noise  down  here 
I  can't  think.  You  can  take  me  there,  if  you  like, 
to  see  that  I  don't  misbehave  on  the  way,"  she  ended 
defiantly. 

"  No  impudence,  miss,"  snapped  her  father,  as 
Theo  flung  out  of  the  room.  The  sense  of  bright 
ness  that  her  presence  always  brought  went  with 
her,  and  the  room  was  suddenly  a  less  interesting 
place.  Her  father,  his  gust  of  temper  over,  smiled 
at  his  wife  across  the  red-checked  tablecloth. 

"  Smart  as  they  make  'em ! "  he  said  proudly ; 
and  Avalene  jerked  her  clumsy  shoulders  resent 
fully.  What  was  the  use  of  being  good  and  obedient 
and  hardworking  if  ... 

But  she  was  as  much  under  Theo's  spell  as  the 
rest,  and  the  next  night,  when  Theo  came  back  from 
her  Latin  studies,  wind-flushed  and  warm,  though 
Avalene  heard  the  muffled  clink  of  skates  in  her  sis 
ter's  school  bag,  she  never  thought  of  telling  on 
Theo.  But  she  very  well  knew  where  her  sister  had 
been. 


12  CHANGELING 

When  the  ice  on  the  lake  bore,  every  boy  and  girl 
in  the  Park  spent  every  free  moment  on  it.  It  was 
especially  modish  in  Theo's  set  to  go  skating  at 
night,  and  everything  of  importance  that  befell  you 
happened  then.  Avalene,  by  the  way,  had  no  temp 
tation  to  go ;  her  especial  friends  skated  in  the  after 
noons.  She  could  see  that  it  was  asking  a  good  deal 
of  Theo  to  deprive  herself  of  the  principal  pleasure 
of  the  time  merely  because  of  a  silly  ukase  from 
Grown  People.  Clarence  Griggs,  the  druggist's  son, 
and  Naomi  Ainslie  and  Martha  Atchison,  respec 
tively  the  doctor's  and  the  Lutheran  minister's 
daughter,  did,  it  was  known,  stay  home  because  they 
were  told  to.  And  girls  like  Catherine  James  and 
Corinna  Goldthwaite,  little  daughters  of  a  remnant 
of  aristocracy  over  on  the  outskirts  of  Allenwood, 
came  down  decorously  with  governesses  once  in  a 
while  for  us  to  look  at  with  a  careless  curiosity. 
But  we  gave  such,  when  we  thought  about  them,  a 
scornful  pity  on  account  of  their  trammels,  which  it 
was  suspected  they  felt.  They  were  removed  en 
tirely,  to  our  mind,  from  life  and  living.  They  were 
"  out  of  things." 

Theo,  skimming  down  the  ice,  hand-in-hand  with 
her  chum,  Leila  Graves,  was  in  things.  She  was  in 
things  up  to  the  hilt — in  fact,  she  was  a  large  part 


CHANGELING  13 

of  them.  Leila  Graves  was  her  second  in  command, 
red-cheeked,  black-ringleted,  sophisticated  and  self- 
assured  as  only  a  hotel-keeper's  daughter  can  be  at 
fourteen,  but  withal  good  natured,  honest  and  a  wor 
shiper  of  Theo's.  She  had  her  own  train.  So  when 
Theo  deserted  her  for  Ethan  Ferrier,  after  the  first 
tingling  half  hour  of  stars  and  ice,  she  promptly 
stole  his  brother,  Quincy,  from  Hetty  Christie;  it 
wasn't  difficult,  because  Hetty  was  only  in  that  set 
on  sufferance,  being  on  the  borderland  that  led  to 
the  despised  "  across-the-track "  girls.  The  boys 
took  her  about  because  her  muddy  skin  and  scarlet 
lips  had  a  strong  charm  of  their  own,  and  the  girls 
tolerated  her  because  she  was  very  demonstrative 
and  very  meek.  But  she  knew  her  place,  and  merely 
went  home  with  fury  in  her  heart,  Tommy  Brock 
tagging  in  her  train.  But  Tommy  was  of  a  still 
lower  caste,  being  a  Radnor  Beach  boy.  We  had 
many  distinctions  in  our  world  of  the  Third  Year 
High. 

Love  reigned  on  the  ice  that  night,  the  child  love 
that  people  laugh  at,  watching,  and  sigh  over,  look 
ing  back.  Everyone  set  to  partners,  more  or  less. 
But  it  was  a  very  real  love — love  at  first  sight — be 
tween  Ethan  Ferrier  and  Theodora  Woods.  He 
was  seventeen  then  and  she  fifteen,  but  they 


14  CHANGELING 

never  either  of  them  knew  anything  like  it  after 
wards. 

The  Ferriers  were  newcomers  in  town.  Ethan 
was  a  tall,  shy  boy  with  a  face  that  seemed  stolid 
till  you  saw  his  eyes.  They  were  the  blue,  sharply- 
intelligent,  deep-set  eyes  that  go  with  the  New  Eng 
land  conscience.  His  people  were  impoverished  New 
England  gentlefolk,  relatives  of  Dr.  Ainslie,  the 
Lutheran  clergyman;  they  had  come  to  the  Park, 
like  most  of  its  citizens,  for  a  fresh  start.  Every 
body  wondered  why  Theo,  who  could  have  had  any 
body  for  a  beau,  preferred  silent  Ethan,  with  his 
shy  ways  and  little  courteous  stammer,  to  his 
brother,  Quincy,  an  airy  and  charming  lad  with 
handsome  features  and  much  manner.  Ethan  prob 
ably  wondered  about  it  himself.  Theo  did  not  give 
her  reasons,  any  more  than  princesses-regent  ever 
do.  Perhaps  it  was  the  innate  straightness  and  chiv 
alry  of  the  lad,  contrasted  with  the  roughness  of  the 
less  well-bred  boys  she  had  known  before.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  deep  faithfulness  she  divined  under  his 
inarticulateness.  Or  it  may  have  been  merely  the 
law  of  contrasts. 

It  did  not  occur  to  the  other  girls  that  the  Ethan 
affair  was  any  more  important  than  Theo's  earlier 
ones.  She  had  possessed  beaux  ever  since  she  was 


CHANGELING  15 

tiny.  Her  high  spirits,  her  self-possession,  her  reg 
nant  little  way  of  taking  admiration  for  granted, 
had  made  the  lads  trail  after  her  sheepishly  even  in 
the  girl-scorning  stages.  She  liked  it  intensely,  of 
course.  If  you  didn't  have  boys  crazy  over  you,  you 
lost  caste  with  the  other  girls.  When  you  had  a 
"  case "  in  the  grammar  grades  you  found  your 
name  and  his  name  written  derisively  in  chalk  on 
the  pavement,  and  the  rest  called  loudly  after  you, 
walking  self-consciously  home  from  school  together. 
As  you  got  older  the  other  girls  still  teased  and  tried 
to  make  you  blush,  and  said,  "  E'e !  She's  blushing!  " 
gleefully  or  angrily,  according  to  whether  they 
wanted  your  special  boy  or  not,  themselves.  If 
your  life  was  boyless  you  were  beneath  contempt. 
They  were  simply  sorry  for  you. 

Theo  had  enjoyed  her  small  beaux,  and  kissed 
them  and  held  hands  with  them  matter-of-factly 
enough  always,  under  the  impression  that  she  was 
making  love.  But  up  to  the  time  she  met  Ethan  she 
had  really  only  been  having  a  good  time  in  the  man 
ner  recommended  by  the  conventions  she  knew. 
She  would  have  been  very  crestfallen  if  anyone  had 
told  her  so,  of  course.  Her  secret  ambition,  like 
that  of  all  the  rest  of  her  friends,  was  to  be  a  dupli 
cate  of  Airy  Fairy  Lilian  in  The  Duchess'  work  of 


16  CHANGELING 

that  name,  which,  in  torn  paper  covers,  had  devas 
tated  the  Set  that  fall.  Theo  was  considered,  except 
for  her  height,  very  like  Lilian.  Well,  perhaps  more 
like  Molly  Bawn,  when  you  came  to  discuss  it  care 
fully. 

But  the  case  of  Ethan  was  more  unlike  the 
rest  than  Theo  herself  knew.  They  had  fallen 
desperately  and  honestly  in  love  during  one  Latin 
period,  and  become  formally  and  thrillingly  engaged 
in  the  course  of  the  week.  Theo  made  the  most  of 
the  advances,  though  neither  of  them  would  have 
believed  that  if  they  had  been  told.  They  said 
nothing  to  their  families  about  it,  of  course;  they 
would  have  been  laughed  at.  Naturally  they  did 
not  give  each  other  this  reason,  but  exchanged  vague 
impressive  hints  of  opposition  till  each  nearly  be 
lieved  the  other.  They  didn't  intend  to  marry  right 
away,  anyhow. 

"  You'll  have  to  go  through  college  first,  and  I'm 
going  to  be  a  famous  artist,"  Theo  laid  down  the 
law,  and  Ethan  assented  gravely.  He  never  even 
talked  as  much  as  usual  when  he  was  with  her,  be 
cause  he  was  so  busy  thinking  about  her  wonderful- 
ness.  She,  on  the  contrary,  talked  more  than  usual, 
because  she  was  so  excited  at  being  with  him. 

Ethan  never  came  to  the  house ;  they  always  met 
elsewhere.  That  was  nothing  against  him.  Your 


CHANGELING  17 

beaux  never  did  come  to  the  house,  except  with  "  the 
crowd."  Your  family  was  all  over  it,  for  one  thing, 
and  would  tease  you  afterwards.  And  Theo  would 
have  preferred  death  to  being  teased  about  the  most 
beautiful  and  wonderful  thing  she  had  ever  known. 

It  was  that  high  and  white  First  Love  which  is 
nearly  too  sacred  to  tell  the  lover  about.  The  first 
night  after  they  had  kissed  each  other  Theo  went 
home  and  burned  up  the  sample  box  of  pirik  powder 
that  she'd  kept  hidden  under  her  silk  stockings  in 
the  bottom  drawer.  She  wanted  to  be  worthy  of 
him.  Under  the  stimulation  of  her  love  for  Ethan 
she  gleamed  brighter  than  ever.  She  got  higher 
marks  at  school,  she  flew  through  her  home  tasks 
more  efficiently  and  speedily,  singing  "  The  Sweetest 
Story  Ever  Told  "  in  an  ecstatic  voice  over  the 
broom  and  the  dishpan.  Her  cheeks  were  burning 
bright  all  day  long,  and  her  jewel-blue  eyes  were 
bluer  than  ever.  Her  very  hair  fluffed  out  more 
electrically  from  the  short,  looped-under  plait  that 
she  had  lately  made  at  the  back  of  her  neck. 

They  went  on  skating  together  and  walking  home 
from  school  together,  and  going  off  for  long  hand- 
in-hand  visits  in  the  little  glazed-in  kiosks  along  the 
boardwalk,  those  places  tacitly  reserved  for  love- 
making.  They  dreamed  and  laughed  and  built  fool- 


i8  CHANGELING 

ish  beautiful  plans;  and  Ethan's  people,  the  brave 
little  overworked  mother  and  languid  gentlemanly 
father  and  small  adoring  sister  and  the  big  invalid 
one,  and  the  gay  and  poised  Quincy,  all  noticed  that 
Ethan  was  looking  older  and  carrying  himself  bet 
ter,  and  working  harder  in  and  out  of  High  School. 
All  the  money  the  Ferriers  could  scrape  together  or 
borrow  was  for  Quincy,  who  was  to  be  sent  to 
college.  He  was  the  star  member  of  the  family. 
But  for  a  while  there  was  actually  some  talk  of  hav 
ing  Ethan  try  for  college,  too.  The  idea  died  gradu 
ally,  but  he  always  remembered  it  of  them  with 
gratitude,  though  when  the  time  came  he  worked 
his  way  through  medical  school  unaided.  Ethan  was 
of  that  burden-bearing  type  which  is  seldom  planned 
for  by  its  nearest  and  dearest. 

Once  he  did  begin  to  tell  his  mother,  a  little  shyly, 
about  the  wonderfulness  of  Theodora;  but  she  did 
not  pay  much  attention.  It  is  possible  that  she  was 
a  little  jealous.  Ethan  had  always  been  hers  and 
nobody  else's;  her  only  aid  in  the  planning  and  fore 
thought  necessary  for  the  happy-go-lucky  others. 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  a  little  better  if  you  gave  all  that 
time  to  a  boy  friend?  "  was  all  she  said. 

So  after  that  Ethan  said  nothing  at  all.  He  was 
too  happy  to  be  chilled,  but  he  fell  back  on  the  old 


CHANGELING  19 

axiom  that  grown  people  never  understand,  anyway. 

They  had  two  months  or  perhaps  more  of  rapture 
— "  walking  on  air  "  is  the  formula  that  describes 
it  best,  perhaps.  Then  their  chances  for  meeting 
began  to  seem  insufficient.  When  you  are  deeply 
in  love  it  is  hard  to  be  denied  long  hours  alone  to 
gether.  Ethan  and  Theo  grew  restive. 

One  afternoon  they  had  to  part  an  hour  before 
Theo's  supper  time.  She  had  something  to  do  at 
home  which  was  inescapable.  And  they  had  not 
half  finished  what  they  wanted  to  say.  They  agreed 
to  meet  on  the  ice  that  night  and  slip  away  to  a 
rustic  seat  in  the  little  island  which  broke  the  bridge 
in  the  middle  of  Sunrise  Lake,  and  talk  some  more. 
They  had  sat  there  so  much  of  late  that  it  had  be 
come  prescriptively  their  own.  It  was  sheltered 
from  the  wind,  and  you  could  sit  with  anyone's  arm 
around  you,  and  not  be  seen. 

After  supper  Theo  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  escape 
that  she  was  impatient  with  Avalene,  ponderously 
and  thoroughly  washing  the  dishes.  And  Avalene, 
stirred  to  anger  in  her  turn,  retorted  on  her  in  an 
incautiously  loud  voice  across  the  kitchen.  Theo 
was  standing  at  ease  by  the  dresser,  ostentatiously 
waiting  to  come  back  to  the  sink,  which  she  had 
cleared  of  dishes,  till  more  should  be  ready  to  dry. 


20  CHANGELING 

"  Course  you're  in  a  hurry,  with  your  beau  wait 
ing  for  you!  If  I  was  you  I  wouldn't  chase  off  like 
that  every  time  he  lifted  his  finger!  How  do  you 
know  he  wants  you?  " 

Theo  was  about  to  reply  crushingly,  when  she  saw 
her  father  crossing  the  dining-room  to  the  kitchen 
door.  She  pushed  it  to  as  if  she  had  not  seen  him. 

"  Now  you've  done  it,"  she  said  bitterly.  "  I 
suppose  you're  glad." 

"  Oh,  he  didn't  hear !  "  answered  Avalene,  rather 
frightened.  "  Not  but  what  he  ought  to  know,"  she 
ended  virtuously.  "  But  he  didn't.  See,  he  didn't 
come  in,  nor  be  cross." 

Theo  caught  her  breath,  and  went  on  with  her 
dishes,  subdued  for  the  moment.  Both  girls  began 
to  talk  loudly  about  the  sins  of  Avalene's  teacher, 
a  noted  and  terrible  landmark  in  school,  Theo  com 
paring  her  past  performances  with  the  tales  of  this 
year  which  Avalene  had  to  tell.  Their  father  did 
not  appear,  however,  and  Theo,  reassured,  washed 
her  hands  and  furtively  dabbed  them  with  violet 
perfume,  collected  her  Latin  books,  put  them  in  the 
school  bag  above  the  muffled  skates,  and  went  to  her 
tryst.  Under  the  exhilaration  of  her  mood  was  the 
little  stirring  of  irrational  fright  which  the  high- 
strung  and  overworked  know.  Her  father's  "  Why 


CHANGELING  21 

can't  you  behave  decently?  "  of  two  months  before 
pricked  her  from  the  hidden  place  in  her  mind  where 
it  had  been  thrust  down.  She  did  so  want  to  be  the 
best  girl  in  the  world,  for  Ethan's  sake.  She  wanted 
to  be  dreadfully  good. 

"  I  feel  as  if  you  were — a  star,"  he  had  said  to 
her  haltingly  that  afternoon.  When  he  said  things 
like  that  it  shook  her  all  over,  and  made  her  feel 
grateful  and  unworthy.  It  was  so  hard  for  him  to 
say  things  at  all. 

Then  all  the  nervous  dread  and  overstrain  were 
lost  in  the  rapture  of  having  Ethan  skate  up  to  her 
from  where  he  had  been  restlessly  circling  the  ice 
alone,  and,  after  he  had  knelt  and  put  on  her  skates, 
pull  her  up  to  her  lithe  height  and  sweep  with  her 
across  the  lake. 

They  circled  the  lake  a  couple  of  times,  then  made 
for  their  nook  on  the  island.  The  electric  lights  on 
the  bridge  were  merciful,  and  did  not  shine  directly 
on  the  bench.  It  was  as  near  to  seclusion  as  they 
ever  attained,  except  once  in  a  while  in  the  board 
walk  summer  houses.  They  kissed  each  other 
swiftly  and  long,  cold  young  cheek  against  cold 
young  cheek,  and  then,  still  interlocked,  with  their 
skates  flung  down  beside  them,  began  to  talk 
ardently  about  their  love  for  each  other,  and  what 


22  CHANGELING 

they  should  do  about  the  long  stretch  of  years 
before  them. 

"  I  can't  wait !  "  Ethan  broke  out.  "  Let's  get 
married  next  year.  I've  worked  before,  in  vacations. 
There  are  lots  of  things  I  can  do." 

He  had  risen  and  was  standing  before  her.  Theo 
sprang  up,  too,  and  answered  him  ardently. 

"  I  can  work,  too,  Ethan !  We  can  do  things  just 
as  well  after  we're  married !  " 

She  laughed  out  in  the  excess  of  her  happiness, 
and  he  laughed  down  at  her.  Then  he  sobered,  and 
bent  over  to  kiss  her  very  slowly. 

"  You  angel !  "  he  said.  "  I'm  not  good  enough 
for  you." 

And  as  he  straightened  himself  from  that  reverent 
kiss,  Theo's  father  caught  his  shoulder  from  behind 
and  jerked  him  aside,  snarling  at  him. 

"  Go  home,  you  young  pup!  "  was  all  he  said,  and 
turned  to  attack  his  daughter. 

It  is  possible  that  he  did  not  realize  himself  to  be 
saying  much  worse  things  than  usual  to  her.  Or 
perhaps  he  felt  that  it  needed  such  words  to  make 
an  impression  on  dominant  young  Theodora.  He 
was  just  a  common,  uncontrolled  little,  bad-tem 
pered  man.  And  then,  of  course,  he  was  used  to 
having  his  rages  discounted ;  he  was  like  a  child  who 


CHANGELING  23 

is  bad  because  it  knows  that  it  will  not  be  taken 
seriously. 

But  at  all  events  the  things  he  said  to  Theo  in 
his  unbridled  petty  rage  at  having  been  tricked  so 
long  were  such  as  cannot  be  said  to  a  good  girl  with 
out  breaking  her,  or  making  her  hate  you  for  life. 
He  stopped  his  shrill  and  outrageous  abuse  pres 
ently,  because  Theo  lay  so  laxly  in  his  clutch,  never 
answering.  It  may  have  taken  him  aback,  for  he 
had  expected,  of  course,  defiance,  or  at  most  an  an 
swering  burst  of  temper.  Instead  his  daughter  stood 
all  slumped  together,  staring  like  a  dead  woman, 
with  her  face,  under  the  rays  of  the  light,  where 
he  had  jerked  her,  wax-white  and  incredulous.  She 
looked  as  if  she  were  drowning.  Presently  her  stiff 
lips  moved  a  little. 

"Ethan,  Ethan,  I'm  not  ..."  she  tried  to 
plead,  and  could  only  whisper.  And  then  she  saw 
that  he  had  gone,  and  shuddered  from  head  to  foot. 
Everything  was  gone,  then. 

He  was  only  seventeen,  and  he  had  acted  auto 
matically;  terrified,  perhaps,  as  Theo  was  terrified. 
The  habit  of  obedience  was  probably  strong.  But 
he  had  gone,  at  that  first  sharp  command.  That  fact 
was  changeless.  And  it  made  Theo  certain  that  he 
accepted  her  father's  belief — that  he  had  deserted 


24  CHANGELING 

her  because  she  really  was  bad.  She  was  innocent 
enough  to  accept  the  fact  herself,  this  much  having 
happened.  She  must  be  wicked  if  her  father  told 
her  so  before  her  lover.  And  if  her  lover  had  gone 
from  her,  it  was  because  he,  too,  saw  that  she  was 
wicked. 

Perhaps  the  crux  of  the  matter  lay  in  the  moment 
her  father  had  taken ;  a  moment  when,  overtired  and 
overdriven  physically  and  mentally,  she  was  at  the 
highest  tension  of  excitement.  Anything  pulled  taut 
is  more  likely  to  snap. 

At  any  rate,  when  her  father  led  Theodora  home, 
walking  heavily  beside  him  with  her  head  drooping, 
and  the  forgotten  skates  clinking  over  her  arm,  it 
was  a  changeling  he  handled.  It  was  still  heavily 
that  she  went  up  to  her  room  at  her  father's  surly, 
relenting,  "  There,  go  to  bed." 

She  walked  through  the  open  doorway,  still  dazed 
with  her  weight  of  shamefulness,  undressed  slowly 
and  with  a  curious  clumsiness,  and  lay  down  beside 
Avalene.  She  even  went  to  sleep.  But  ir  an  hour 
Avalene  was  awakened  by  her  sister's  terrified  sobs. 
Theo  was  clutching  her  and  moaning  that  she  was 
afraid  of  the  dark — 

"  Light  a  light— please  light  a  light!  " 

"  I  suppose  that's  why  you  went  down  cellar  Hal- 


CHANGELING  25 

lowe'en  night  backwards  without  any  candle," 
Avalene  answered,  sleepily  sarcastic. 

But  Theo  sobbed  on,  and  presently  Avalene  took 
the  alarm  and  called  their  mother,  who,  being  a 
sensible  woman,  lighted  the  lamp  immediately.  Theo 
quieted  down  at  that  and  slept  again,  though  it  was 
an  uneasy  sleep  which  disturbed  Avalene  to  the  point 
of  annoyance.  Next  morning  Theo  was  in  the  same 
unstrung  state;  her  father's  voice,  floating  up  from 
the  dining-room  as  he  made  his  usual  querulous  pro 
test  about  the  oatmeal,  threw  her  into  a  fresh 
paroxysm  of  terrified  sobbing.  Finally  they  sum 
moned  the  doctor.  It  always  cheered  you  up  to 
have  Dr.  Atchison  come  in  the  room.  He  made  you 
laugh  so  when  he  said  things  about  your  being  sick. 
Theo  looked  at  him,  wondering  why  she  couldn't 
laugh,  and  hoping  he  didn't  know  how  bad  she  was. 
It  seemed  to  her  strange  that  he  talked  to  her  in  as 
friendly  a  way  as  usual. 

"  Valedictories  and  parties  altogether  too  much, 
eh?  "  he  ended,  smiling  at  her.  "  You  must  take  a 
rest,  child.  Mustn't  think  because  a  horse  will  go 
till  it  drops,  that  it  won't  drop,  you  know,  Mrs. 
Woods!  She's  high-strung,  and  she'd  come  to  a 
place  where  all  she  needed  was  one  more  party.  I 
suppose  you  had  it,  didn't  you,  Theo?  " 


26  CHANGELING 

Dr.  Atchison's  views  on  too  many  parties  for  the 
adolescent  were  all  the  more  keen  because  his  own 
Martha  was  going  to  win  out  in  her  struggle  to  go 
to  all  the  Junior  dances,  and  he  knew  it. 

Theo  looked  at  him  dully,  and  as  his  cheery  voice 
touched  the  hurt  place  in  her  consciousness — the 
place  her  father's  outrageous  words  had  lacerated — 
tears  began  to  slide  helplessly  down  her  cheeks  once 
more.  After  which  the  doctor  patted  her,  rallied 
her  again,  told  her  that  she  would  be  all  right  soon 
and  might  get  one  party  in  by  May  if  she  was  a  good 
girl  and  kept  off  the  boardwalk  for  a  while;  and  left, 
to  talk  seriously  about  breakdowns  from  overstudy, 
where  only  Mrs.  Woods  could  hear  him.  He  coun 
seled  a  stopping  short  of  everything — work,  play, 
excitement — for  a  while;  and  a  trip  away  some 
where.  The  shock  of  being  irrevocably  disgraced 
before  the  person  who  mattered  most  in  the  world 
was  something  he  could  not  bring  into  his  calcula 
tions,  of  course.  He  might  have  discounted  it,  any 
way.  As  Theo  or  Ethan  would  have  said,  he  was 
grown  up. 

But  even  Theo  herself,  wincing  at  her  father's 
footstep  in  the  days  while  she  was  being  made  ready 
to  go  up  to  Grampa  Coburn's  and  rest,  never  knew 
that  it  was  her  father  who  had  broken  her.  She 


CHANGELING  27 

only  expected  every  unhappy  day  to  be  all  right  to 
morrow,  and  like  her  old  self;  and  she  watched 
breathlessly  and  agonizedly  for  Ethan  minute  by 
minute  and  hour  by  hour.  She  lay  on  the  little  rep 
sofa  in  the  front  room  and  stared  ceaselessly  out  of 
the  window,  no  one  but  herself  knew  why. 

But  Ethan  never  came. 

.  .  .  So  he  did  think  she  was  wicked.  .  .  . 
There  was  no  hope  that  he  would  ever  think  any 
thing  else.  .  .  .  She  would  never  have  a  chance 
to  make  the  long  appealing  self-justifications  she 
made  in  her  mind,  and  said  over  and  over  again  to 
herself,  changing  the  phrasings  and  the  beginnings 
and  endings  to  make  it  more  likely  he  would  accept 
them.  ...  It  was  wicked  to  kiss  boys,  and  flirt 
with  them,  and  be  shameless  and  a  hussy  that  lied 
to  everybody,  and  that  no  decent  man  would  ever 
believe  in.  ...  When  the  other  girls,  the  ones 
boys  didn't  like,  like  Eloise  Gahegan,  said  she  was 
forward,  they  had  known.  It  hadn't  been  cattiness. 
.  .  .  She  cried  weakly  on  her  sofa  when  the  time 
came — about  twice  a  day — that  she  could  bear 
watching  for  Ethan  no  longer.  All  the  spirit  and 
the  self-respect  was  beaten  out  of  her.  She  went 
gratefully  to  the  bleak  little  Red  Bank  farm,  grate 
ful  for  the  chance  to  crawl  off  and  hide. 


28  CHANGELING 

They  were  very  kind  to  her  there,  of  course.  But 
they  puzzled  over  her,  the  gaunt  old  English  people, 
pottering  about  the  little  rooms.  All  she  would  do 
was  to  lie  on  the  sofa  by  the  window,  as  she  had  at 
home,  and  watch,  or,  as  she  became  stronger,  lean 
at  the  gate  watching.  No,  there  was  nobody  she 
expected,  she  told  them — which  was  as  well  for  her 
self-respect,  because  nobody  ever  came.  She  had 
wild  dreams  how  Ethan  would  come  dashing  to  the 
door  to  tell  her  that  it  was  all  a  mistake;  that  he 
hadn't  heard  anything  her  father  had  said;  that  he 
didn't  believe  any  of  it;  that  he  had  found  a  way  to 
make  lots  of  money,  and  soon,  when  she  was  sixteen, 
they  should  be  married.  It  kept  her  from  going  to 
pieces  all  over  again.  But  all  the  while  she  knew 
that  it  wasn't  true;  that  it  never  would  be  true. 
Ethan  knew  her  to  be  disgraced  and  worthless  and 
forward.  He  would  never  come. 

And  he  never  did. 

Gradually  she  got  better.  Her  body  was  tod 
strong  for  her  not  to.  Her  co-ordination  was  bad ; 
it  never  became  really  good.  She  dropped  things 
and  moved  clumsily  long  afterwards,  and  she  was 
afraid  of  the  dark,  and  listless.  And  she  began  to  be 
imitative  of  any  one  she  was  near.  This,  however, 
led  to  a  good  result;  she  picked  up  her  grand- 


CHANGELING  29 

'mother's  still  beautiful,  throaty,  English  voice  and 
accent,  instead  of  the  flat  New  Jersey  provincialism 
she  had  known  before;  and  despite  her  struggles 
not  to  "  put  on  airs  "  she  never  lost  it.  Finally 
she  went  back  home,  just  in  time  to  help  pack  for 
another  of  Mr.  Woods'  sudden  purposeless  moves; 
purposeless,  that  is,  unless  a  vaguely  constant  wish 
to  do  better  somewhere  else  is  to  be  counted  a  pur 
pose.  They  trekked  to  Jersey  City. 

The  family,  when  it  took  time  to  observe,  found 
her  curiously  docile.  It  also  felt  that  she  was  not 
interesting  any  more.  When  one  of  the  lads  of  her 
old  suite,  greatly  daring,  came  over  with  his  sister  to 
say  good-by,  she  was  stiff  and  shy  with  him.  She 
was  ill  at  ease,  too,  with  another  worshiper  encoun 
tered  down  town  on  an  errand.  She  giggled  and 
jerked  out  stiff  phrases  and  colored  up  uncomfort 
ably.  The  light  of  her  had  gone  out. 

One  of  these  boys  simply  forgot  her  noiselessly. 
The  other,  being  more  interested  in  his  emotions, 
decided  that  he  must  have  matured  greatly  without 
knowing  it,  to  have  recovered  so  completely  from  his 
little  affair.  He  was  very  cocky  about  it  among 
his  mates  after  the  Woods  had  moved  away,  and 
the  other  boys,  not  having  seen  the  changeling 
Theo,  envied  him.  Some  of  them  cherished  memo- 


30  CHANGELING 

ries  of  her  long  after  they  were  grown  and  married 
and  should  have  been  very  wise. 

As  for  Ethan  Ferrier,  he  went  his  way,  rather 
more  quietly  than  usual.  He  said  nothing  about 
Theo  to  any  one,  and  as  he  was  not  of  the  type  with 
which  liberties  are  taken,  no  one  said  anything  to 
him.  He  went  on  working  in  vacations  to  help 
support  the  family,  and  keeping  his  mouth  tighter 
and  tighter  shut.  And  presently  the  Ferriers,  too, 
moved  from  the  Park.  That  was  the  way  of  the 
Park;  every  one  moved  away  sooner  or  later,  though 
they  were  equally  sure  to  be  drawn  back  again. 

Life  went  on  in  a  rather  small  and  uninteresting 
fashion  so  far  as  the  Woods  family  were  concerned. 
Theo  got  older  and  forgot  about  Ethan  and  didn't 
jump  if  her  father  spoke  suddenly,  and  presently 
took  a  business  college  course  at  the  increasingly 
sensible  Avalene's  instigation.  Avalene  herself 
went  successfully  through  library  school  and  secured 
an  excellent  position,  while  Theodora  got  a  book 
keeper's  place  in  New  York.  By  the  time  they  were 
twenty-four  and  twenty-six  they  were  supporting 
the  family,  as  Avalene  had  foreseen  they  would  have 
to,  because  Mr.  Woods  became  several  more  kinds 
of  a  failure  as  the  years  gave  him  opportunity. 


CHANGELING  31 

Somewhere  along  those  years  he  was  moved  to 
relate  one  day  as  a  good  joke  that  he  had  burned 
a  dozen  letters  to  Theodora,  and,  finally,  to  himself, 
from  Ethan  Ferrier,  about  the  time  Theodora  had 
her  breakdown. 

"  Why,  papa,  you  shouldn't  have  done  that !  "  his 
wife  said,  and  Theodora  felt  a  shadowy  sense  of 
injury,  and  said, 

"  Well,  I  think  I  might  have  seen  them  after  I 
got  well,  anyhow !  " 

Avalene  said  competently, 

"  Nonsense,  what  would  you  do  with  a  pack  of 
kid  love-letters?  "  and  Theo  answered  shamefacedly, 
"  Well,  they  might  be  funny." 

The  family  discussed  the  question  a  little 
while  longer,  for  small  things  were  of  interest  in 
that  uneventful  household,  and  forgot  about  it.  But 
the  general  opinion  was  that  Avalene  was  right — 
as  it  usually  was.  She  had  taken  the  helm  of  that 
rather  inefficient  home. 

She  had  matured  into  a  poised,  loud-voiced, 
dogged  person,  with  much  of  her  mother's  heavy, 
just  kindness.  The  efforts  she  had  made  to  keep  up 
to  Theo  in  the  days  of  Theo's  brilliance  had  given 
her  a  capacity  for  hard  work  which  made  her  a 
success  in  her  own  line.  She  was  contentedly  un- 


32  CHANGELING 

nfarried,  rather  jolly  and  auntlike  already  with  men, 
by  the  time  she  was  twenty-six  and  Theodora  a 
couple  of  years  older;  and  by  this  time  every  one 
considered  Avalene  much  the  elder.  Time  made 
little  mark  on  Theodora,  who  had  tacitly  become  one 
of  the  younger  sisters,  to  be  run  by  Lena,  as  they 
were  trained  to  call  her  now,  for  their  own  good. 
She  was  as  much  and  as  willingly  under  Lena's  guid 
ance  as  little  Milly.  More,  indeed,  for  Milly  was 
twenty  and  engaged,  and  her  ring  made  her  feel 
independent. 

Theo  had  no  such  claim  to  respect.  So  she  took 
pullings  up  with  meekness,  knowing  herself  to  be 
absent-minded,  and  apt  to  "  do  things  in  a  dream," 
except  for  her  fierce  mothering  of  Pussy,  the 
youngest  sister.  Indeed,  Theo's  whole  attitude  to 
life  had  become  meek.  She  still  had  a  sort  of  in 
dependence  which  was  self-respect,  but  beneath  it, 
too  palpable,  was  that  pathetic  eagerness  to  please 
which  you  so  often  see  in  gentle-natured,  neglected 
women.  Theo  had  learned  before  she  was  twenty 
that  if  she  wanted  people  to  like  her  she  must  pay 
by  doing  things  for  them — to  buy  a  little  gratitude. 
She  scarcely  expected  even  that  from  men.  A  man 
would  meet  her  and  talk  to  her  for  five  minutes,  on 
the  strength  of  her  long  blue  eyes  and  yellow  hair 


CHANGELING  33 

and  Diana-figure;  then  he  would  discover  that  the 
something  which  makes  women  interesting  simply 
was  not  there ;  and  go  as  soon  as  he  decently  could. 
Women  did  the  same  in  a  more  courteous  way. 

Theo  looked  a  little  hurt  and  wistful  sometimes 
when  some  man  or  woman  would  show  all  too 
plainly  that  they  thought  her  uninteresting;  but 
she  never  said  anything.  That  much  of  the  old 
Elizabethan  gallantry  was  left  to  her.  She  carried 
herself  straightly  and  proudly  still,  though  there  was 
nothing  left  of  the  old  lissom,  unconscious  challenge 
in  her  bearing.  People  would  turn  to  look  at  her 
walking  from  the  ferry  to  her  office  every  morning. 
But  they  never  looked  twice.  The  something  that 
holds  the  eye  had  gone.  And  that  was  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  she  had  changed  so  little  as  to  be 
more  like  a  statue  of  her  former  self  than  anything 
else. 

It  was  to  this  unchangedness  that  she  owed  her 
recognition  by  Leila  Graves.  She  was  walking 
swiftly  from  the  ferry  as  usual,  intent  on  shopping, 
for  it  was  a  holiday  for  her,  when  somebody's  motor 
pulled  up  sharply,  and  she  heard  a  voice  calling  her. 
She  turned,  and  saw  an  opulent  rose  of  a  woman, 
furred  to  the  eyes,  waving  a  white-gloved  hand  at 
her. 


34  CHANGELING 

"  Theo  Woods !  It  is  Theo !  "  said  the  lovely  lady 
delightedly,  and  swept  her  impetuously  into  the  seat 
beside  her.  Theo  came,  with  the  dazed  docility  of 
her  older  years,  but  it  was  a  full  minute  before  she 
had  the  clue.  "  Leila  Graves — don't  you  know  me, 
goosie!  Oh,  don't  say  I'm  changed  as  much  as 
that! " 

Then  Theo  placed  her;  and  remembered  hearing, 
indifferently  as  she  heard  most  things,  that  Leila 
had  married  a  rich  man  whom  she  had  met  at  her 
father's  hotel,  and  lived  in  New  York  now. 

Leila  laughed;  the  same  honest,  gay  laugh  Theo 
remembered,  and  it  turned  her  somehow  into  the  girl 
she  had  known,  in  spite  of  the  careful  dressing  of 
the  black  curls,  and  the  film  of  powder  over  the  rosy 
cheeks.  Leila  looked  her  age  as  Theo  didn't.  But 
she  was  ripe  and  alive,  so  alive  that  her  dangerous 
skirting  of  overplumpness  was  a  thing  you  liked. 
Theo  vaguely  felt  the  difference  between  them,  and 
wished  that  Lena  was  there  to  tell  her  what  to  do. 
Nobody  ever  overawed  Lena. 

Meanwhile  Leila  talked  straight  ahead  in  the  old 
way. 

"  I'm  going  to  let  everything  I'd  planned  go  to  the 
winds.  It  was  only  a  hen  luncheon  and  a  silly  old 
tea  anyway.  It  isn't  every  day  you  discover  your 


CHANGELING  35 

long-lost  chum.  Just  think,  Theo,  it's  fourteen  years 
since  you  went  away.  And  all  this  time  I've  won 
dered  about  you  and  where  you  were  and  what  you 
were  doing — and  here  you  are !  " 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  give  up  your  engage 
ments  for  me,"  Theo  answered  lamely,  feeling  the 
stiff  inadequateness  of  her  words  as  she  spoke.  But 
Leila  had  never  been  a  very  sensitive  or  observant 
person.  She  went  on  talking  to  Theo,  carried  along 
by  her  own  excitement.  For  a  minute  Theo's 
cheeks  colored  in  the  old  way,  and  she  felt  a  spark 
of  the  old  self  come  back,  in  the  echo  of  Leila's 
belief  that  it  was  there.  Then  it  faded,  and  she  was 
again  the  inarticulate  Theo  of  today. 

Whether  Leila  felt  the  difference  in  her  or  not, 
she  went  on  pouring  out  chatter  about  such  of  their 
schoolmates  as  she  had  kept  in  sight.  Wanda  Bailey 
was  a  musical  comedy  star — that  shy  little  thing  with 
the  eyelashes !  Hetty  Christie,  after  getting  herself 
talked  about  in  every  way  known  to  the  scandal- 
loving  Park,  had  married  the  boy  next  door  to  her, 
and  was  a  leading  soprano  in  the  church  choir. 
She  had  three  children.  Gypsy  Donovan  was  a  com 
mercial  traveler — of  all  things  for  a  girl  to  be! — 
Naomi  Ainslie  wrote  books,  all  by  herself  in  a 
studio.  Clarence  Griggs  was  in  the  paper  business, 


36  CHANGELING 

and  Anderson  Gray  had  died  of  typhoid  just  as  he 
got  back  from  his  honeymoon.  The  Ferrier  boys 
were  doing  splendidly  till  the  war  started;  Ethan 
had  put  himself  through  medical  school  and  all.  He 
was  in  the  medical  corps  now,  of  course.  Quincy 
had  made  heaps  of  money  as  a  broker,  but  he  was 
in  Europe  when  the  war  broke  out,  and  stayed  there 
to  enlist.  (This  was  all  before  the  war  suddenly 
sat  down  flat  and  ended.  Just  a  little  while  before.) 
She  would  get  some  of  them  up  to  see  Theo.  She 
never  met  any  one  of  them  without  having  them  ask 
about  Theo  and  wonder  what  she  was  doing. 

Did  Theo  remember  the  time  when  she  and  Gypsy 
and  Leila  had  written  Clarence  Griggs  a  note,  and 
then  made  him  wait  outside  her  door  three  hours  in 
the  rain,  for  her  to  wave  a  handkerchief  at  him? 
And  the  time  Anderson  Gray  was  caught  by  the 
teacher  kissing  Leila's  Geometry  where  she  had 
touched  it.  ... 

Theo's  eyes  brightened  as  she  listened.  Those  far- 
off  childish  triumphs  were  comforting  to  hear  about, 
though  she  couldn't  make  them  seem  ever  to  have 
been  her  own.  The  audacious  and  all-conquering 
child  who  had  led  a  half-dozen  wild  other  children 
through  a  dozen  wild  adventures  seemed  to  her 
somebody  else — some  young  princess  ancestor  of 


CHANGELING  37 

whom  she  might  be  dimly  proud.  No  more.  She 
tried  desperately  to  be  that  girl  through  luncheon 
with  Leila  at  a  fashionable  restaurant,  after  which 
they  went  up  to  Leila's  lovely  little  apartment  and 
sat  by  the  wood-fire.  She  tried  still  as  she  was 
motored  down  to  the  ferry,  picking  up  Leila's  hus 
band,  whose  name  was  Billy  Minton,  by  the  way. 
'And  she  tried  to  make  herself  think  she  had 
succeeded. 

She  reported  it  all  to  her  family,  of  course,  at 
the  supper  table.  So  little  happened  to  any  of  them 
that  everything  had  to  be  recounted  at  length,  and 
was  usually  discussed  for  a  week  afterwards.  This 
counted  as  a  great  adventure. 

"  You  make  a  fuss  over  that  Leila  Graves,  Theo," 
her  father  advised,  wagging  his  sandy-gray  head 
wisely.  He  had  grown  a  little  foolish  as  he  became 
older,  and  less  conscious  of  his  own  mental  proc 
esses.  He  didn't  feel  the  necessity  of  hiding  his 
motives  from  himself  so  carefully.  "  You  don't 
know  what  you  may  get  out  of  it,  if  she's  as  rich 
as  all  that." 

Theo  colored  up. 

"  I  don't  want  to  get  anything  out  of  it,"  she 
answered.  "  She  was  lovely  to  me." 

"  Then  it's  only  decent  for  you  to  be  nice  to  her. 


38  CHANGELING 

I  remember  how  she  used  to  tag  round  after  you. 
She'd  probably  be  as  crazy  over  you  as  ever,  give 
her  the  chance,"  said  Avalene  more  gracefully  than 
her  father,  but  to  the  same  general  effect. 

"  Lots  of  rich  people  in  New  York  don't  have  any 
friends,"  chimed  in  young  Milly  wisely.  "  I've  read 
stories  about  it.  Like  as  not  she  was  awful  glad  to 
see  a  face  she  knew." 

Theo,  remembering  Leila's  careless  mention  of  a 
tea  and  a  luncheon  dropped  for  old  sake's  sake,  was 
not  so  sure.  But  the  family,  to  whom  less  happened 
than  even  in  old  years,  went  on  discussing  the  en 
counter  in  all  its  phases,  and  deciding  individually 
what  Theo  should  proceed  to  do  in  order  to  keep 
Leila's  friendship,  till  Theodora  almost  wished  she 
hadn't  dutifully  reported  her  day. 

Meanwhile  warm-hearted  Leila  was  telling  her 
Billy  all  about  it,  and  trying  to  discover  why  Theo 
had  left  her  so  unmoved. 

"  I  tell  you,  Billy,  she  was  wonderful ! "  she  in 
sisted  plaintively.  "  I  think  I  must  have  turned  into 
a  horrid  heartless  person,  or  grown  awfully  old,  not 
to  have  any  feelings  about  her." 

Her  husband  shook  his  practical,  close-clipped 
head. 

"  Never  saw  a  stupider  girl.     Didn't  even  walk 


CHANGELING  39 

right — jerked.  Good  looking  enough  if  you  like  that 
rangy  kind,  but  a  fearful  bore." 

Leila  sprang  to  the  defence  of  her  old  idol. 

"  Why,  whenever  I  run  across  anybody  from  the 
Park  the  first  thing  they  say,  nearly,  is,  '  Have  you 
heard  anything  of  Theo?  I  suppose  she's  made  a 
brilliant  match,  or  had  some  sort  of  a  wonderful 
career.' ' 

He  shook  his  head  again,  and  reached  for  the 
matches — they  were  finishing  dinner. 

"  You  can't  convince  me.  You  were  a  little  girl 
with  a  schoolgirl  crush  on  her.  She  was  never 
really  anything  like  that." 

"  I  could  bring  a  dozen  people  to  prove  it,"  said 
Leila  spiritedly.  "  I  know  she  isn't  even  interesting 
now.  But  she's  turned  into  something  else.  She 
was  wonderful." 

"  You're  dreaming,  honey.  There  isn't  a  sane 
human  being  in  the  world  who  would  back  you  up. 
It's  just  your  own  nice  way  of  looking  at  things." 

"  Is  it  a  bet?  "  demanded  Leila  unexpectedly. 

He  nodded  calmly. 

"  The  furs  you  want  against — well,  I'd  have  to 
pay  for  both  sides.  The  furs  against  your  letting 
me  have  my  way  the  next  time  you  want  yours !" 

"  Fair  enough,"  said  Leila,  as  she  rose  and  walked 


40  CHANGELING 

defiantly  to  the  telephone.  "  I'll  get  Naomi  to  start 
on.  And  she  can  help  me  get  someone  else  in  a 
hurry,  because  she's  a  celebrity,  and  Park  people 
hunt  her  up  because  they  knew  her  then." 

Naomi,  the  celebrity,  answered  with  an  awed  thrill 
in  her  ordinarily  unimpassioned  voice. 

"Theo  Woods?  Of  course  I'd  come — miles! 
Who  shall  I  try  for  ?  Clarence  Griggs  ?  But  there'd 
have  to  be  his  wife." 

Mrs.  Griggs  had  been  married  for  money,  and 
showed  it  too  much.  One  did  not  invite  her  unless 
expediency  impelled. 

"  Do  you  think  you  could  get  your  cousin 
Ethan?"  suggested  Leila.  "He  hasn't  gone  over 
yet,  has  he?  " 

"  Not  yet,  I  think.  Aunt  Lucina  says  they  keep 
him  pretty  busy,  but  I'll  try  for  him  at  Upton.  He 
knew  Theo  pretty  well,  didn't  he  ?  " 

"  M'hm.    He  had  a  wild  case  on  her." 

"  Did  he  ?  "  said  his  cousin  indifferently.  "  I 
didn't  know.  Well,  then,  I'll  get  Ethan  if  I  can, 
Clarence  Griggs  if  I  can't.  I'm  afraid  it  will  have 
to  be  Saturday  night.  They  work  him  very  hard." 

"  Good !  "  said  Leila,  and  hung  up  the  telephone 
with  triumph  in  her  eye. 

Theo  was  invited,  and  came  duly  on  Saturday 


CHANGELING  41 

evening.  She  was  not  specially  moved  by  the 
prospect  of  seeing  Ethan.  The  circumstances  of 
the  old  hurt,  so  far  as  her  conscious  mind  went, 
were  entirely  buried.  When  Avalene  recalled  that 
Ethan  had  been  crazy  over  Theo,  the  girl's  only 
feeling  was  the  old  dread  of  not  measuring  up  to 
her  princess-self  of  the  old  time.  She  was  much 
more  excited  at  the  prospect  of  meeting  Naomi, 
whom  she  had  never  known  well,  but  whose  books 
she  had  seen  of  late.  She  had  never  met  any  one 
who  wrote  before.  Her  father  was  more  excited 
still. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  can't  drop  bookkeeping  and 
sit  down  and  write  a  novel.  You  were  a  lot  smarter 
than  Naomi  Ainslie,"  he  insisted  about  once  a  day 
till  the  moment  when  she  went,  and  Theo  answered 
him  patiently  each  time,  "  All  right,  papa,  I'll  try." 

Her  tone  dragged  a  little  the  last  time  she  said  it, 
for  she  was  tired  from  being  up  the  night  before, 
letting  down  and  taking  in  Avalene's  black  dinner 
gown  to  fit  her.  It  was  a  wispy  thing,  but  it  looked 
well  on  Theo's  tall  slenderness.  Considered  in  the 
abstract,  she  was  beautiful  as  she  came  out  from 
Leila's  bedroom,  having  left  there  her  raincoat,  and 
•walked  nervously  into  the  little  room  where  the 
others  waited.  But  the  feeling  of  pleasure  that 


42  CHANGELING 

beauty  must  give  to  be  recognized  as  such  was  so 
lacking  that  they  scarcely  thought  her  pretty  at  all. 

For  her  own  impressions,  she  admired  at  first 
sight,  most,  a  negligible  Celtic  poet  whom  Naomi 
had  brought  along  so  that  there  should  be  an  even 
number  of  men  and  women.  He  had  drifting  black 
hair  and  was  in  evening  dress,  and  possessed  a 
supercilious  air.  All  these  taken  together  awed 
Theo  for  quite  a  little  while — until  she  discovered 
that  the  others  were  merely  amused  by  him,  indeed. 

Naomi,  little  changed  from  the  smooth-haired, 
nervous-featured  child  of  old  except  for  eyeglasses 
and  a  capacity  for  laughter,  and  Ethan,  big  and 
immobile  in  his  khaki,  did  not  frighten  her  as  much 
as  she  had  expected.  They  seemed  easy  and  natu 
ral,  and  just  like  folks. 

Leila's  husband  looked  after  her  throughout 
dinner,  telling  her  little  jokes  with  that  excellent 
semblance  of  frank  enjoyment  which  is  a  part  of 
the  American  business  man's  equipment.  She  en 
joyed  the  dinner  and  the  jokes  as  a  child  enjoys;  the 
light  and  the  good  food  and  the  laughter,  and  the 
fictitious  feeling  of  being  in  things  for  the  moment, 
which  the  whole  party  gave  her. 

As  the  meal  went  on  she  noticed  Ethan  a  little 
more;  perhaps  because  of  some  glimmering  that  he 


CHANGELING  43 

was  secretly  watching  her.    She  looked  at  him  with 
a  little  curiosity. 

He  was  tall  and  broad,  as  he  had  promised  to  be, 
and  rather  impressive.  He  had  acquired  poise, 
conversation,  and  a  deliberate,  kindly  manner  which 
was  very  likable.  Altogether  an  ordinary,  courteous 
gentleman,  with  the  mark  of  professionalism  al 
ready  on  him;  not  strikingly  different  from  others 
of  his  type,  except  for  the  slight,  winning  stammer 
which  he  had  never  lost,  and  for  his  remarkable 
eyes.  They  were  still,  when  he  was  off  guard,  the 
burning  eyes  of  the  New  England  mystic — almost 
fanatic — of  one  who  would  go  to  any  length  for 
conscience'  sake.  Theo  saw  nothing  much  of  all 
this.  She  had  never  thought  about  people  a  great 
deal. 

Through  the  dinner  and  the  rest  of  the  evening 
Theo,  unconscious,  of  course,  that  she  was  under 
any  special  scrutiny,  behaved  very  nicely.  She  was 
quiet,  that  was  all;  a  little  shy  of  the  poet,  and 
formal  with  the  others. 

She  had  to  go  early,  because  her  father  was  still 
severe  if  she  stayed  out  late,  rarely  as  her  outings 
happened.  The  other  daughters  ignored  his  nag 
gings  by  now,  but  Theo  was  still  affected  by  them. 
So  Naomi  dispatched  her  well-trained  poet  to  the 


44  CHANGELING 

ferry  with  Theo,  as  she  and  Leila  had  planned  be 
forehand.  This  left  the  clear  field  that  Leila  wanted 
for  discussion. 

Leila  returned  from  hospitably  following  them  to 
the  door,  and  sank  down  again  with  an  unconscious 
sigh  of  relaxation.  The  others,  too,  leaned  back,  in 
freer  attitudes.  Relief  was  in  the  air. 

Billy,  the  irrepressible,  voiced  it. 

"  Gee !  I'm  going  to  put  on  more  wood  to  take 
the  chill  out  of  the  air !  " 

Naomi  spoke  next,  musingly. 

"  Now  I  understand  why  people  used  to  believe 
in  the  existence  of  changelings !  " 

Ethan  said  nothing  at  all.  Only  his  deep  eyes 
looked  straight  at  Leila,  with  a  puzzled  question  in 
them. 

"And  that's  your  childhood  charmer!"  Billy 
went  on,  between  puffs  of  his  pipe.  "Ferrier — 
Naomi — there's  a  bet  on,  as  you  know.  Now,  be 
fair.  Can  either  of  you  sit  there  and  tell  me 
honestly  that  the  wooden  image  we've  just  been 
pleased  to  part  with  ever  made  anybody  have  any 
emotion  but  pleasure  at  seeing  the  last  of  her  ?  " 

Ethan  had  been  leaning  forward,  chin  on  hand, 
staring  at  the  rug.  He  spoke  without  moving  or 
looking  at  any  one,  in  a  dull,  uninflected  voice. 


CHANGELING  45 

"  When  Theodora  came  into  a  room  it  was  as  if 
a  light  went  on.  ...  When  she  spoke  you  re 
membered  everything  she  said  until  you  saw  her 
again.  .  .  .  She  was  like  a  princess,  and  we  all 
worshipped  her.  I  am  very  sorry  to  have  seen  her 
again." 

He  ceased  speaking,  remaining  immovable,  star 
ing  at  the  rug  still.  When  he  was  done  there  was 
a  little  uneasy  pause. 

Billy  threw  off  the  spell  first.  He  laughed  a 
little. 

"  Lord !    I  can't  believe  it !  " 

Naomi  reinforced  her  cousin.  Her  small  pale 
face  was  rather  moved. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Billy,  it's  quite  true.  Something  curi 
ous  seems  to  have  happened  to  her.  When  she  was 
between  fifteen  and  sixteen  she  was  the  most  bril 
liant  girl  in  the  place,  and  the  most  charming.  She 
was  a  leader,  and  adored." 

Billy's  great  boyish  laugh  boomed  out  again. 

"You  win,  Leila!  But  I  think  you  stuffed  the 
ballot  box " 

He  was  interrupted  by  Ethan,  rising  decisively. 

"  If  you  people  don't  mind,  I'll  go.  Camp  makes 
you  used  to  early  hours.  I'll  drop  you  at  your 
place,  Naomi,  if  you  hurry  and  get  your  things  on." 


46  CHANGELING 

He  spoke  almost  brusquely,  but  Naomi,  watching 
him  under  her  eyelashes,  thought  he  eyed  her  with 
a  furtive  appeal.  She  rose  and  went  obediently 
with  him. 

"  There's  time  to  walk,  if  you  don't  mind,"  he 
said,  drawing  a  long  breath  of  evident  relief  when 
they  were  outside. 

"  I'd  like  to,"  she  said  gently. 

He  wanted  to  talk;  she  was  sure  of  that  now. 
She  let  him  hurry  her  along  silently  for  a  couple  of 
blocks.  She  wondered  what  was  coming.  But  she 
was  not  braced  for  the  note  of  horror  in  his  voice 
when  he  did  speak. 

"  Naomi !  It  was  a  profanation — that  being  our 
Theodora!" 

She  had  wondered  if  he  was  going  to  be  in  love 
with  Theo  again.  Apparently  not.  The  note  in  his 
voice  was  nearly  one  of  hate.  She  tried  to  answer 
him  lightly. 

"  It  isn't  our  Theodora.  She  is  in  a  green  hill 
somewhere,  having  the  old  wild  good  time  till  the 
day  of  Judgment.  This  is  a  changeling  the  Good 
People  have  left  to  mock  us." 

"  Don't! "  he  said  passionately.  "  I  can't  bear  it. 
.  .  .  Don't  let's  talk  of  it  at  all.  I  wish  I  could 
forget  seeing  That." 


CHANGELING  47 

"  But,  Ethan  dear !  "  she  began  wonderingly. 

He  burst  out  again  passionately. 

"I  worshipped  the  ground  she  walked  on!"  he 
said.  "  It  was  never  like  a  boy's  love.  It  was  all 
the  love  any  man  ever  has  for  any  woman.  I've 
never  cared  for  any  one  since.  I've  always  told 
myself  with  certainty  that  I'd  find  her  again.  I 
believed  it  like  gospel.  No  matter  how  old  we  were 
— no  matter  how  long  it  was — I'd  find  her  and  it 
would  be  all  right.  .  .  .  And  now  this — this  piti 
ful  Thing  with  its  jerks  and  its  meeknesses  and  its 
anxiousness  to  please  and  its  stupidity.  .  .  .  And 
the  damned  creature  daring  to  wear  the  mask  of  my 
Theo!" 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Naomi  inadequately,  "  I  won 
der  what  did  it." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  try  to  find  out !  "  said 
her  cousin  savagely.  "  And  if  you  have  the  slightest 
consideration  for  me,  Naomi,  never  let  me  see  that 
creature  again." 

He  did  not  ask  her  to  keep  his  confidence.  He 
knew  she  would.  Somehow  people  never  minded 
Naomi's  knowing  intimate  things  about  them,  even 
her  relatives.  She  seemed  so  a  spectator  at  life  that 
it  scarcely  mattered.  So  they  said  no  more  about 
it.  Naomi  spent  the  rest  of  the  way  home  quietly 


48  CHANGELING 

bringing  Ethan  back  to  his  usual  unemotional, 
kindly  self,  and  succeeded  perfectly  well. 

But  Naomi  herself  wondered  a  great  deal  about 
Theo.  It  did  not  seem  such  a  happen-so  to  her 
as  to  the  others;  it  was  her  creed  that  when  some 
thing  happened  it  was  because  something  else — even 
though  the  something  else  were  very  small  and  very 
remote — had  made  it.  And  affairs  of  the  mind  and 
soul  interested  her.  She  wanted  the  answer  to 
Theo;  she  was  nearly  sure  that  there  must  be  one. 
So  she  asked  the  girl  to  have  dinner  with  her  at 
the  little  studio  apartment  a  week  later. 

Theo  by  herself  was  not  so  nervous  or  so  shy 
as  Theo  at  a  party.  She  even  tried  to  be  enter 
taining,  which  gave  Naomi  a  ghastly  feeling  as  if 
she  were  seeing  a  Barrie  play  very  badly  done  by 
daylight.  She  told  Naomi  a  number  of  stories 
about  her  sisters'  performances,  wonderful,  clearly, 
in  her  eyes;  she  even  essayed  a  funny  anecdote 
Avalene  had  brought  home,  ruining  it  completely  in 
the  telling. 

Naomi  watched  pitifully  the  limping  mind  which 
had  been  so  swift  and  effortless,  with  its  submissive- 
ness  where  there  had  been  bright  defiance,  and  its 
struggles  where  there  had  been  delight  in  achieve 
ment.  And  she  watched  herself,  and  the  feeling 


CHANGELING  49 

that  Theo  produced  in  her.  It  was  distaste;  a  dis 
taste  and  weariness  that  was  the  complement  of  the 
eagerness  she  had  once  felt  to  be  with  her.  So  she 
watched  her  friend  more  undisguisedly  than  she 
thought,  and  the  girl,  none  too  deft  at  best,  moved 
uneasily,  dropped  a  spoon  on  the  floor,  and  then 
smiled  in  nervous  apology. 

"I'm  always  doing  that,"  she  said.  "Avalene 
says  I'm  the  clumsiest  thing  she  ever  saw." 

"  Did  you  ever  have  a  bad  nervous  breakdown?  " 
Naomi  asked  with  quick  irrelevancy.  . 

"  Why,  how  queer  you  could  tell,  or  did  you  hear 
about  it  ?  Yes,  but  not  for  ever  so  many  years.  I'd 
almost  forgotten  about  it.  I  studied  too  hard  my 
last  year  in  High,  and  I  had  to  go  off  to  Gramma 
Coburn's  for  two  months  till  I  was  all  right  again. 
Avalene " 

Naomi  deflected  the  inevitable  reference  to  Ava 
lene,  Pussy,  Milly,  or  Pussy's  or  Milly's  beaux, 
which  she  knew  was  coming,  and  set  Theo's  ram 
bling  mind  again  on  the  track  of  the  nervous  break 
down.  It  was  hard  at  first.  Something  under  the 
surface  automatically  jerked  her  away  from  the 
topic  of  herself  when  she  had  gone  a  certain  dis 
tance,  and  took  her  to  Milly,  or  her  great  pride, 
Avalene,  again.  But  Naomi  persisted,  and  at  last 


50  CHANGELING 

Theo,  under  the  spell  of  that  almost  forgotten  thing, 
an  interested  auditor,  told  about  it;  the  affair  with 
young  Ethan,  which  she  seemed  to  feel  herself 
bound  to  belittle;  and  presently  even  her  father's 
brutality  over  it. 

It  was  not  until  almost  the  end  of  the  story  that 
Naomi  got  a  clue  from  an  unmeant  word. 

Theo  had  believed  herself  to  be  a  shameless  girl. 
Her  father  had  managed  to  stab  into  the  very  depths 
of  her  consciousness  the  certainty  that  her  gay  ways, 
and  her  harmless  flirtations  with  boys  made  her  dis 
graced  and  wicked.  No  matter  how  she  might  push 
it  away  from  her  own  surface  knowledge,  funda 
mentally  it  was  there. 

And  her  shamed  underself ,  agonized  for  the  sense 
of  Tightness  at  any  cost,  would  hold  her,  no  matter 
how  she  suffered,  from  any  word  or  look  or  vibra 
tion  which  could  or  would  attract  man,  woman,  or 
child. 

She  tried  to  show  this  to  Theodora  as  she  divined 
it,  but  she  found  that  she  was  speaking  an  unknown 
language. 

"  We  were  all  just  kids,"  Theo  would  repeat  with 
her  little  awkward  laugh.  "  It  was  all  of  it  awfully 
silly — it  didn't  have  anything  to  do  with  my  nerves. 
Why,  I'd  forgotten  about  it!  Mother  said  I  must 


CHANGELING  51 

put  it  all  out  of  my  mind,  and  I  did.  I  guess  I 
was  pretty  fresh  when  I  lived  in  the  Park." 

So  Naomi  only  said,  "  Have  some  more  candied 
fruit,  won't  you,  Theo?  Did  you  say  it  was  Milly 
who  made  such  good  fudge,  or  Avalene?" 

Theo  responded  gratefully,  eating  the  sweets  with 
a  child's  pleasure.  They  must  have  meager  fare  at 
the  Woods'  house,  Naomi  meditated.  And  she  had 
the  key  to  the  enigma,  which  was  a  thing  she  always 
liked.  It  seemed  a  pity,  though,  a  cruel  pity.  But 
then,  reasoned  Naomi,  most  things  were.  She  was 
very  nice  to  Theo  the  next  few  weeks,  especially 
nice;  something  in  the  spirit  in  which  you  cover 
graves  with  flowers. 

Therefore  Ethan,  with  a  message  from  his 
mother,  ran  into  Theo  at  Naomi's  one  afternoon. 
He  entered  as  she  left.  Naomi  saw  his  darkened 
'face,  and  apologized. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "  I  wouldn't  have  had 
her,  of  course,  if  I'd  expected  you.  But  really  it 
seemed  to  me  so  horribly  tragic " 

She  pulled  herself  up,  and  he  did  not  ask  her  what 
she  meant,  at  least  not  then.  He  prowled  around 
the  studio  for  a  little  while,  lifting  things  and 
putting  them  down. 

Finally  he  came  to  anchor  before  the  chair  where 


52  CHANGELING 

she  sat  watching  him.  "  You  might  as  well  talk  to 
me  about  it,"  he  said  doggedly.  "  What  is  there 
that's  tragic  about  that — girl  ?  " 

Naomi  was  interested  in  her  own  deductions. 
She  forgot  herself  entirely  in  her  interest  in  them, 
as  she  poured  them  out  to  Ethan.  His  mind  was 
always  a  pleasure  to  her ;  they  were  alike  in  a  habit 
of  ruthless  straight  thinking,  and  liked  to  think  to 
gether.  And  Ethan's  distaste  for  Theodora  blinded 
her  to  any  bearing  his  own  part  in  the  case  might 
have  on  his  attitude  to  the  story. 

She  had  been  knitting  as  she  talked,  with  her  eyes 
down  on  her  work.  She  looked  up  at  him  at  the 
end,  triumphant  over  what  she  had  deduced;  and, 
seeing  his  face,  gasped  into  silence.  It  was  white 
and  tense,  and  there  was  horror  in  it — the  horror 
of  something  dreadful  faced  ahead. 

"  What  is  it,  dear?  Oh,  what  is  it?  "  she  asked 
in  terror. 

"  Then — then  it  was  I — who  killed  her !  "  he  said 
jerkily,  still  with  that  look  of  faced  horror. 

"  No,  no !  "  cried  out  Naomi. 
'     "  I  killed  her,"  he  repeated. 

Naomi  had  been  so  carried  away  by  her  profes 
sional  interest  in  the  thing  that  its  connection  with 
Ethan  had  slipped  from  her  entirely.  In  her  mind 


CHANGELING  53 

all  the  blame  of  Theodora's  shaming  was  at  the 
door  of  her  father.  Ethan  had  only  done  what  most 
boys  would  do, — obeyed  when  a  man  of  his  own 
father's  age  ordered  him.  But  she  saw  now  how  it 
had  flung  itself  at  Ethan.  And  it  was  too  nearly 
likely  to  be  true  to  be  denied  easily.  There  had 
been  doubtless  a  half-dozen  factors  in  the  quenching 
of  that  light  which  had  burned  in  Theodora.  But 
the  belief  that  her  boy-lover  had  despised  and  de 
serted  her — Naomi  had  no  certainty  that  it  hadn't 
been  the  final  wrecking.  Still,  Naomi  fought  it, 
denying  as  best  she  might  against  her  own  belief. 

"  Ethan  dear,  don't  feel  so  exaggeratedly  about 
it.  Put  it  out  of  your  mind — there's  nothing  to  be 
done  about  it,  now.  Most  people  have  a  shipwreck 
or  so  before  they  die;  only  Theo's  happened  to  be 
a  bit  more  spectacular  than  the  common  run." 

"  I — I  wrote  her,"  was  all  he  said,  in  a  vague 
way. 

"  Of  course  you  did !  "  affirmed  Naomi.  "  It  was 
the  silly  old  father  who  held  up  your  letters.  Theo 
said  so.  At  least  she  said  he  told  her  so  a  few  years 
ago.  She  didn't  seem  to  bear  him  any  malice. 
Ethan,  Ethan,  don't  look  that  way!  I  tell  you 
there's  nothing  to  be  done." 

"  There  is  something  to  be  done,"  he  turned  on 


54  CHANGELING 

her  almost  angrily.  Then,  in  little  broken  phrases 
as  he  walked  up  and  down,  "  I  ran  away  ...  I 
left  her  to  it  .  .  .1  took  away  her  only  chance 
of  not  being  smashed.  Just  like  a  clock — my  God, 
just  like  a  clock  with  its  works  all  scrapped!  I  owe 
it  to  her  to  marry  her.  Yes — just  as  if  I'd  ruined 
her.  .  .  .  Ruined  her!  Heavens,  what  would 
that  have  been  beside  the  thing  I  did  do!  .  .  . 
That  soulless,  jerking  wreck — I  made  it !  " 

Naomi,  almost  frantic  over  him,  snatched  at  the 
phrase  he  had  flung  out. 

"Marry  her!  Oh,  Ethan  dear,  don't!  You 
wouldn't  straighten  out  her  life,  and  you'd  ruin 
yours.  You  can't  bear  her.  You'd  be  unhappy " 

She  stopped,  conscious  of  the  inadequacy  of  that 
or  any  other  argument,  to  this  man,  with  his  streak 
of  mysticism,  fanaticism,  mad  conscientiousness. 
Call  it  what  you  would,  she  knew  it,  and  what  it 
would  make  him  do.  His  happiness  had  ceased  to 
concern  him.  Finally  she  tried  for  a  little  comfort 
for  her  own  feelings.  Perhaps  he  cared  for  Theo 
still.  She  had  hoped  that  Ethan  would  marry  a  girl 
he  loved,  and  perhaps  this  way,  after  all — 

"  But  you  do  care  for  her  a  little  still  ?  "  she  ven 
tured.  "  It's  come  back  a  little  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 


CHANGELING  55 

"No.  .  .  .  But  in  one  way  it  will  be  all  right. 
In  three  weeks  we'll  be  going  over.  I'm  nearly  sure. 
Four  at  the  outside.  I'll  marry  her  in  a  day  or  so. 
I  can  stand  that  much  of  it.  And  then  she'll  have 
insurance,  and  there  may  be  a  child.  She'd  like  a 
child,  and  it  might  straighten  her  out.  .  .  . 
Thank  God  I  hadn't  learned  to  care  for  anybody 
else!" 

Yes,  there  was  still  that  to  be  thankful  for. 

There  was  no  pretense  between  them  that  Theo 
might  refuse  to  marry  Ethan.  The  girl's  pitiful 
mortification  over  her  unattractiveness  showed  in 
spite  of  her  gallant  efforts  to  hide  it.  Her  helpless, 
confused  gratitude  for  the  commonest  attentions 
was  naked  to  the  world.  And  she  had  been  Princess 
Theo! 

Ethan  tried  Naomi  still  further. 

"  You'll  have  to  get  her  here — let  me  see — I  can't 
get  away  again  till  Friday  afternoon.  Have  her 
here,  and  I'll  speak  to  her.  She's  like  a  child. 
She'll  think  it  natural  enough  that  I  never  forgot 
her,  once  I  tell  her  so." 

Naomi  bowed  her  head.  She  had  pulled  the 
thing  down  on  Ethan  herself.  If  she  did  not  do  as 
he  wished  he  would  find  another  way,  and  this  was 
easiest. 


56  CHANGELING 

"  Very  well,"  she  said.  And  then,  impulsively, 
"  Oh,  I  wish  there  were  miracles !  " 

"  There  aren't,"  said  Ethan  succinctly.  "  About 
four,  then." 

Theo  fidgeted  a  little  at  finding  herself  alone  with 
a  man  for  an  hour  to  come.  Naomi  had  made  her 
promise  to  wait  there  till  she  came  back,  and  left 
her,  crossing  Ethan  as  she  went  out. 

"  Must  you  ? "  she  implored  hopelessly  as  she 
went  out. 

He  nodded,  patted  her  arm  in  a  brotherly  fashion, 
and  went  in,  steadily  smiling. 

He  went  at  it  in  a  sufficiently  courteous  fashion, 
though  a  girl  more  used  to  lovers  than  Theo  might 
have  felt  that  something  was  missing.  He  had 
never  forgotten  her,  he  told  her.  He  had  never 
cared  for  any  one  else.  He  had  always  loved  and 
respected  the  memory  of  her.  .  .  . 

She  heard  him  through,  fidgeting  more  than  ever 
as  he  went  on  his  slow,  forced  way.  She  laughed 
her  little  awkward  laugh,  and  he  hated  her  for  it 
as  he  completed  the  voicing  of  his  reparation. 
When  he  was  done  he  sat  silently  a  moment,  bracing 
for  what  more  he  must  do.  Presently  he  looked  up 
at  her,  sitting  across  from  him. 


CHANGELING  57 

She  had  stopped  her  little  restless  movements. 
She  was  rigid,  and  her  eyes  stared.  She  looked  like 
a  sleepwalker.  He  watched  her,  arrested.  Pres 
ently  from  the  base  of  her  white,  masklike  face 
there  began  a  flush  which  spread  up  to  the  roots 
of  her  yellow  hair,  and  faded  suddenly,  leaving  her 
white  again.  Unmoving,  she  spoke. 

"  Like — a  star,"  she  said  in  a  voice  that  was  like 
a  sleepwalker's  too. 

He  did  not  know  what  she  meant  at  first.  Then 
he  remembered.  He  had  said  that,  the  afternoon 
before  her  father  broke  in  on  them,  long  ago. 
He  had  not  thought  she  would  have  remem 
bered. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  like  a  star.  You  were  like  a 
star  to  me.  I  always  remembered  you  so.  I  wor 
shipped  you." 

"  Always  ?  You — you  never  thought  I  was  a 
wicked  girl?  " 

For  the  first  time  he  felt  a  thrill  of  pity  for  her. 
It  was  almost  as  if  he  was  giving  a  message  to  be 
carried  to  that  Theo  he  remembered. 

"  Never — never,  Theo !  I  went  off  because  your 
father  sent  me;  because  I  was  a  young  coward.  I 
never  even  heard  the  things  he  said  to  you.  I  tried 
to  see  you  afterwards,  and  write,  but  he  wouldn't 


58  CHANGELING 

give  me  a  chance.  I  worshipped  you,  as  we  all  did. 
Only  I  cared  more." 

She  made  no  answer.  Her  head  drooped.  He 
could  not  see  her  face;  and  for  a  moment  the 
illusion  came  to  him  of  that  old  Theo.  There  might 
be  other  moments  of  that  illusion,  he  thought,  to 
make  the  weeks  of  their  marriage  bearable.  He 
looked  no  further  than  that,  because  he  never  in 
tended  to  come  back  from  the  war. 

While  that  blessed  illusion  was  still  with  him  he 
took  courage  to  go  on  to  the  next  thing  he  must 
do.  He  knew  that  he  must  touch  her,  kiss  her — 
do  something  to  show  her  that  the  lie  he  was  acting 
was  not  a  lie.  He  slipped  down  on  one  knee  by 
her,  putting  his  arms  around  her  and  drawing  her 
face  down  to  his,  as  they  had  been  that  last 
night  when  they  were  children.  He  repeated  the 
words  he  had  said,  desperately,  and  kissed 
her. 

"  You  were  like  a  star  to  me,"  he  repeated. 

Her  lips  felt  cold  under  his,  and  she  was  rigid  for 
a  moment  more.  Suddenly  her  arms,  which  had 
been  lax,  closed  strongly  around  him,  and  she  re 
sponded  to  his  kiss.  He  felt  her  begin  to  sob  help 
lessly. 

"  Ethan — Ethan "  he  heard  her  say  brokenly, 


CHANGELING  59 

and  yet  with  a  depth  in  her  voice  that  he  had  for 
gotten.  "  So  many  years " 

His  heart  leaped  suddenly.  He  pushed  her  head 
back,  unbelieving,  so  that  he  could  look  into  her 
eyes.  And  at  what  he  saw  he  drew  her  close  again. 

Naomi  re-entered  at  the  end  of  two  hours,  heart 
sick  still.  She  stood  unseen  for  a  moment  in  the 
dusk  of  her  doorway. 

"  The  war  is  going  to  end,  they  say,  in  a  little 
while  now,"  she  spoke  across  the  room. 

"  Thank  God!  "  said  Ethan,  lifting  a  face  of  joy 
ful  adoration  from  bending  above  the  girl  in  his 
arms. 

And  as  Naomi  still  stood,  glad  yet  unbelieving, 
Theo  came  swiftly  across  to  her  with  her  old  sweep 
ing,  swift  step.  Her  face  smiled  vividly  at  Naomi, 
and  her  hands  were  outstretched. 

"  Thank  God ! "  said  Naomi.  "  Oh,  thank  God, 
Ethan !  Miracles  do  happen  sometimes ! " 


ROSABEL  PARADISE 

WE  were  not  a  gentle,  fussy,  little  old-lady  town 
any  more.  We  had  a  charter,  and  we  were  a  raw, 
young,  ill-bred  citylet  which  wanted  to  forget  lead 
ing  strings  as  violently  as  a  deacon's  son  in  the  city 
for  the  first  time.  We  had  thrown  off  our  tutors 
and  governors,  forty-five  stingy,  businesslike,  but 
thoroughly  good,  old  gentlemen,  and  we  were  being 
as  blunderingly  devilish,  corporately  and  individ 
ually,  as  we  knew  how.  We  had  been  a  camp-meet 
ing  association.  We  were  now  a  full-fledged 
summer  resort.  Our  ex-rulers  sighed  over  their 
plump  balances,  and  quoted  hymns  about  every  pros 
pect  pleasing  and  only  man  being  vile. 

This  was  really  not  a  bad  description  of  the 
Park  from  one  point  of  view. 

Whatever  point  of  view  yours  might  be,  if  you 
lived  in  the  Park  all  the  year  round  there  was  one 
thing  you  were  sure  to  say  with  conviction,  sooner 
or  later : 

"  This  is  no  place  to  bring  up  a  child." 

The  feverish,  tawdrily  gay  summer,  when  you 
couldn't  do  a  thing  with  the  children,  alternated 

60 


ROSABEL  PARADISE  61 

with  the  emptily  idle  winter,  when  there  wasn't  a 
thing  for  the  children  to  do.  If  our  people  had  any 
money  they  sent  us  to  boarding-school.  If  they 
hadn't,  or  didn't  worry,  we  spent  fourteen  hours  a 
day  and  all  available  change  on  the  boardwalk  in 
summer,  and  made  precocious  love  to  each  other 
there  in  winter  after  school. 

Rosabel  Paradise  was  not  of  the  little  flock  who 
were  exiled  to  boarding-school  or  convent.  Her 
mother  hadn't  the  money  and  would  never  have 
thought  of  it,  anyway. 

Her  name  sounds  as  if  it  had  been  her  own  hasty 
manufacture,  but  it  was  hers  legally.  Some  of 
our  elders  remembered  dimly  a  Bill  Paradise  who 
had  been  her  father  and  a  carpenter,  and  who  had 
fallen  off  a  ladder  and  broken  his  neck  back  in  the 
dark  ages.  Rosabel's  first  name  was  probably  out 
of  a  book  of  Miss  Libbey's.  Her  mother  read  them 
a  great  deal.  She  was  a  thin,  voluble  woman,  with 
occasional  teeth  and  an  aimless  intensity  of  manner. 
She  was  a  dressmaker  of  the  less  skillful  kind;  the 
sort  you  engaged  at  a  pinch  when  your  pet  many- 
dollars-a-day  genius  was  promised  haughtily  far 
ahead,  and  Margie's  pink  frock  had  to  be  done  by 
next  Tuesday  night. 

Rosabel  herself  was  a  scrawny,  sallow  child  of 


62  ROSABEL  PARADISE 

fifteen,  with  big,  heavy-lashed  black  eyes  and  a  fur 
tive  manner.  She  was  little  for  her  age,  and  she 
dressed  always  in  heavily  trimmed  blue  and  magenta 
cashmeres  that  her  mother  made  for  her.  There 
was  a  pathetic  elaboration  about  the  colored  cash 
meres  and  about  the  wide  ribbons  on  the  child's 
lank,  black  hair.  You  could  see  that  her  mother 
petted  her  in  a  fierce,  making-up  sort  of  way,  as 
women  pet  children  who  are  deformed — though 
Rosabel  was  not  deformed  in  the  least.  She  might 
have  been  even  pretty  if  she  had  been  graceful  and 
clear-skinned  and  had  had  a  different  expression. 
If  Rosabel  had  been  deformed  the  chances  are  she 
would  have  been  happier.  It  was  not  that.  Two 
years  ago  Things  had  happened. 

It's  easy  to  say  who  are  to  blame  for  Things — 
mothers  and  self-will  and  such — but  putting  blame 
where  it  accurately  belongs  is  much  harder  than 
pigs-in-clover.  And  when  an  ignorant,  excitable 
woman  has  to  earn  her  living  by  being  a  dressmaker- 
by-the-day  she  cannot  be  as  thorough  in  her  child- 
training  as  if  she  had  had  a  governess,  or  could  keep 
her  child  in  the  convent  where  they  sent  little  Leila 
Graves  and  Wanda  Bailey. 

And  then  it  might  not  have  made  so  much  dif- 


ROSABEL  PARADISE  63 

ference  if  Rosabel  had  had  that  desirable,  if  some 
what  annoying,  thing  our  elders  called  "  good  home 
training."  Because  at  thirteen  Rosabel  acquired  a 
bosom  friend,  and  from  about  ten  to  seventeen  a 
bosom  friend  has  more  power  over  you  than  all  the 
law  and  the  prophets. 

Nellie — this  special  one — was  the  kind  to  use 
power  to  the  limit.  She  was  two  years  older  than 
Rosabel,  and  very  clever.  She  was  not  afraid  of 
any  one,  not  even  grown  people  or  policemen.  She 
was  softly  plump  and  blonde  and  wide-smiling,  and 
she  painted  her  cheeks  pink  and  darkened  her  eye 
lashes.  She  was  very  wise  in  all  the  things  little 
girls  wonder  about.  Rosabel  often  marveled  how 
she  came  to  know  so  much.  But  Nellies  are  born 
knowing.  They  are  the  material  of  which  are  made 
certain  types  of  vaudeville  players  and  ladies  who 
marry  aged  millionaires  slightly  before  they  die.  So 
when  Nellie  got  a  position  with  the  man  who  had 
the  concession  for  the  Mystic  Turkish  Grotto,  she 
had  no  trouble  getting  Rosabel  one  as  well.  Rosa 
bel's  mother  was  quite  willing.  It  would  not  only 
mean  money,  but,  as  she  said,  it  would  keep  the  kids 
off  the  boardwalk. 

It  did,  of  course — that  is,  it  kept  Rosabel,  which 
was  all  her  mother  cared  about  Nellie's  hours  were 


64  ROSABEL  PARADISE 

from  ten  to  three.  Rosabel  Paradise  had  the  after 
noon-evening  shift.  They  sat  behind  a  little  wicket 
in  their  best  dresses  and  took  tickets.  The  man  who 
ran  the  Mystic  Turkish  Grotto  stayed  mostly  in  a 
little  room  opening  off  the  one  behind  the  wicket, 
so  he  could  keep  tabs  on  the  audience  and  also  on 
the  honesty  of  the  girls.  Their  pay  was  sure  and 
high,  as  pay  for  temporary  positions  always  is. 
Altogether,  as  Nellie  boasted  to  her  "  pick-ups,"  it 
was  a  soft  snap. 

Nothing  happened  to  Nellie.  The  reputations  of 
Nellies  are  permanently  dingy  at  the  edges,  but 
somehow  they  never  seem  to  get  black  all  over. 
When  fall  came  and  the  Park  closed  all  at  once  like 
a  stage  city,  Nellie  drifted  off  somewhere  else,  out 
of  Rosabel  Paradise's  life.  So  did  the  man  who  had 
run  the  Turkish  Grotto.  That  is,  if  you  want  to 
call  him  a  man.  He  was  really  a  brute  beast :  more 
especially  because  he  was  over  fifty,  married,  and, 
they  said,  had  grown-up  daughters. 

Poor  women  cannot  take  their  daughters  off  on 
six  months'  trips  to  vague  somewheres  for  their 
health  when  Things  happen.  Rosabel  Paradise 
stayed  at  home  in  the  little  four-room  red-plush  flat 
over  the  Johnson  dairy.  And  the  women  in  the  flat 
below  heard  Rosabel's  mother  screaming  at  her,  and 


ROSABEL  PARADISE  65 

Rosabel  crying,  crying,  crying  as  only  a  heartbroken 
child  can  cry.  And  when  Rosabel  fell  quickly  ill 
they  knew  it  and  said  things  about  her  mother; 
and  when  Rosabel  got  better,  white  and  little 
and  broken-spirited,  they  said  things  about  her. 
And  they  asked  the  doctor  leading  questions,  so 
that  he  was  rude  to  them,  and  they  talked 
more. 

After  that  none  of  the  girls  would  speak  to  Rosa 
bel.  Oh,  we  were  very  wise  at  thirteen  and  four 
teen,  we  of  the  Park ! 

Rosabel  seemed  very  lonely — not  that  you  could 
stop  for  that.  She  used  to  sit  and  play  jacks  on 
her  doorstep,  and  cringe  when  people  passed.  And 
she  used  to  steal  up  and  down  the  boardwalk  alone, 
in  her  brilliant,  cheaply-elaborate  dresses,  listening 
to  the  band  and  hungrily  watching  other  people 
having  good  times  with  each  other.  No  one  ever 
spoke  to  her,  except  the  ministers  and  one  or  two  of 
the  middle-aged  women  in  her  mother's  insurance 
society.  Not  even  the  boys  bothered  her;  she  was 
too  forlorn  and  dingy  a  little  figure  for  their  notice. 
She  was  too  young  to  make  friends  with  a  grown-up 
bad  element,  even  if  she  had  wanted  to.  And  ap 
parently  she  did  not  want  to.  She  helped  her  mother 
around  the  house  and  kept  on  playing  jacks  on  the 


66  ROSABEL  PARADISE 

doorstep.  The  other  girls  of  her  age  graduated  to 
postage-stamp  plates  and  cigar-band  cushions,  but 
it's  difficult  to  follow  the  fashions  if  you  are  an 
outcast.  There's  no  one  to  go  by. 

Rosabel  Paradise  must  have  been  just  around  fif 
teen  the  April  Miss  James  got  up  the  fan-drill  for 
the  Second  Lutheran  Church.  It  was  a  curly,  com 
plicated  drill,  not  worth  half  the  practice  it  took,  but 
drills  were  sweeping  the  country  that  year.  This 
was  to  be  the  piece  de  resistance  of  an  entertainment 
with  a  red  church  carpet  as  its  goal.  Miss  James 
was  more  or  less  of  an  outlander;  a  cousin  of  the 
Jameses  across  the  lake  in  Allenwood.  There  were 
old  houses  there,  and  people  who  lived  something 
like  the  ones  in  the  Duchess  novels.  They  had  serv 
ants  instead  of  a  "  girl,"  and  their  children  couldn't 
do  as  they  pleased.  Little  Catherine  James  even  had 
a  governess.  We  envied  her  a  little,  but  we  were 
sorry  for  her,  too. 

Miss  James  drilled  earnestly,  but  by  the  fourth 
rehearsal  her  soul  was  weary  within  her.  Twenty- 
four  girls  of  assorted  sizes  and  romantic  names, 
with  not  a  scrap  of  enthusiasm  among  the  twenty- 
four,  are  very  hard  on  a  trainer.  We  of  the  Park 
were  blase  with  a  boardwalk  sophistication  which 
could  give  Miss  James  points,  for  she  was  not  much 


ROSABEL  PARADISE  67 

over  twenty  herself  and  a  newcomer  in  town.  The 
first  wild,  careless  rapture  had  gone  from  the  girls' 
hearts,  and  by  this  time  they  were  dropping  un 
ashamedly  out,  or  sending  impudent  messages  about 
not  needing  so  many  rehearsals. 

So  when  Rosabel  Paradise,  dingy  and  furtive  as 
ever,  with  a  wad  of  soiled  embroidery  crushed  in  her 
hand,  slid  into  a  seat  at  the  bottom  of  the  Wesley 
Avenue  Pavilion  where  the  girls  rehearsed,  Miss 
James  eyed  her  with  interest  as  a  possible  recruit. 
The  number  that  day  was  uneven,  and  they  could 
not  finish  properly  without  another  girl.  At  the 
first  pause  Miss  James  skimmed  down  to  the  door 
with  the  darting,  swallowlike  movements  that  all 
teachers  of  gymnastics  acquire. 

"What's  your  name,  dear?"  she  asked  breath 
lessly,  alighting  at  Rosabel's  side.  "  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  come  into  the  drill  ?  Come,  try  it  once,  any 
way,  won't  you  ?  " 

Rosabel  Paradise  flushed  scarlet.  There  must 
have  been  a  great  deal  of  dumb,  lonely  horror  in 
cluded  in  all  the  months  since  Things  had  happened, 
but  you  have  to  be  to  a  certain  degree  grown-up, 
or  very  clever,  to  have  horror  make  you  wiser  and 
older.  Rosabel  was  only  a  little  girl  still;  all  the 
more  childish,  perhaps,  for  Things  having  happened 


68  ROSABEL  PARADISE 

and  shut  her  up  in  an  invisible,  shameful  prison  two 
years  before.  It  must  have  seemed  very  wonderful 
to  her,  the  chance  of  being  in  something  once  more, 
after  watching  everything  go  mockingly  by  her  for 
so  long. 

"  My  name's  Rosabel  Paradise,"  she  said,  bring 
ing  it  out  with  a  jerk  of  effort.  She  looked  down 
at  her  grimy  embroidery  in  the  old  hangdog  way, 
and  wriggled  her  shoulders.  "  I'd — like  to  join  very 
much,"  she  finished,  flushing  darker  and  tugging  at 
the  embroidery. 

Such  willingness  as  this  was  not  the  custom  of 
the  country.  Miss  James  beamed  with  pleasure  and 
carried  Rosabel  off  to  the  head  of  the  room. 

"  This  is  Rosabel  Paradise,  girls,"  she  announced. 
"  She'll  fill  in  Thelma  Petty's  place." 

Nobody  answered,  but  neither  Miss  James  nor 
Rosabel  noticed  it,  they  were  so  busy  getting  Rosa 
bel  placed.  She  was  handed  over  to  Catherine,  Miss 
James's  little  cousin,  because  Catherine  had  attended 
all  four  rehearsals  and  could  best  manage  a  new 
comer. 

Catherine  did  not  live  in  the  Park,  so  she  did  not 
know  all  we  did  about  the  evils  of  this  wicked  world. 
She  was  a  gentle  little  thing  with  fair,  straight  hair 
and  a  sweet,  serious  little  face;  rather  an  Alice-in- 


ROSABEL  PARADISE  69 

Wonderland  grown  to  be  fourteen  or  so.  She  had 
been  brought  up,  said  our  elders  with  the  incompre 
hensible  approval  of  elders,  to  be  a  little  girl.  This 
seemed  to  us  an  advantage  taken  of  Catherine  by  her 
people  for  their  own  purposes.  It  certainly  wasn't 
useful  to  Catherine.  We  pitied  her  tentatively  while 
we  held  her  in  awe  for  her  pretty  manners,  and  did 
not  dare  come  so  very  near.  But  Catherine,  hand- 
in-hand  with  Rosabel  Paradise !  The  girls  eyed  the 
pair  of  them  silently,  whispered  a  little,  and  went  on 
drilling.  You  could  not  make  a  row  in  the  middle 
of  things,  and  as  long  as  you  were  there,  you  might 
as  well  practise.  It  was  the  best  day's  work  the 
girls  had  put  in,  and  Miss  James  told  them  so. 
There  had  been  no  giggling,  no  dashes  to  the  door 
to  see  boys  stroll  by :  nothing  but  dense  silence  and 
dogged  marching. 

At  last  the  ranks  broke.  Rosabel  went  away 
quickly  and  silently,  after  her  usual  custom.  Most 
of  the  other  girls  lingered.  They  broke  into  little 
knots  and  talked  earnestly.  Presently  Miss  James 
became  aware  that  they  were  pushing  each  other, 
with  "  You  go,  Pearl !  "  "  Naw,  you  go,  Leila!  " 
Shyness  in  the  Park  was  as  much  a  portent  as 
enthusiasm,  and  Miss  James  awaited  events  with 
interest.  There  was  a  final  whisper  of :  "  You  go, 


70  ROSABEL  PARADISE 

Beryl ! "  and  Beryl  went.  She  walked  up  to  Miss 
James  and  spoke. 

"  Miss  James,"  she  said,  "  we  got  something  to 
tell  you — something  you  oughta  know." 

"Well,  Beryl?" 

Beryl's  hard,  handsome  little  face  hardened  still 
more  under  the  stress  of  the  message. 

"  That  girl,  Rosabel  Paradise,  she  ain't  fit  for  us 
decent  girls  to  go  with,"  said  Beryl. 

Beryl  seems  always  to  have  had  a  strong  sense  of 
virtue;  she  had  procured  divorces  from  two  hus 
bands  by  the  time  she  was  twenty-three.  She  was 
fourteen  at  the  time  of  the  Paradise  affair. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Miss  James,  stif 
fening;  and  Beryl  explained — explained  with  the 
hideous  clarity  and  detail  of  country  towns.  You 
see,  we  had  only  had  our  charter  such  a  very  little 
while ! 

"  An'  if  she  stays  in  the  rest  of  us  will  just  hafta 
drop  out,"  she  wound  up.  "  My  mamma,  she  says : 
'  Beryl,'  she  says,  '  you're  too  young  to  learn  evil. 
You  keep  away  from  that  there  girl.' ' 

Catherine  clutched  her  cousin's  hand,  half  horri 
fied,  half  thrilled,  and  her  cousin,  remembering  her, 
cut  the  thing  short. 

"  We'll  see  what  the  Ladies'  Aid  says,"  she  tem- 


ROSABEL  PARADISE  71 

porized.  But  she  knew  very  well  what  the  Ladies' 
Aid  would  say.  It  is  all  very  well  to  stand  up 
for  the  oppressed,  but  one  oppressed  all  by  herself 
won't  make  a  drill  any  more  than  the  one  swallow 
we  have  heard  about  makes  a  summer.  So  the  end 
of  it  was  that  a  very  gentle,  kind  note  was  sent  to 
Rosabel;  as  kind,  that  is,  as  such  a  note  can  be. 
To  be  sure,  that  isn't  saying  very  much.  And 
Rosabel's  mother  came  out  and  made  a  trying  and 
unavailing  row  at  the  minister's  house. 

This  was  entirely  the  wrong  place.  She  should 
have  chosen  the  Ladies'  Aid.  She  took  a  great  deal 
of  time  which  the  minister  could  ill  afford  from  his 
sermon,  and  went  into  hysterics  and  had  to  be  sent 
home.  But  that  was  all. 

All,  at  least,  till  the  next  Monday  night. 

It  seems  curious  that  this  one  incident  should  have 
had  so  much  effect  on  Rosabel  Paradise.  There 
must  have  been  others  at  least  a  little  like  it  in  those 
long  eighteen  months  since  Things  had  happened. 

Perhaps  she  just  couldn't  stand  anything  more. 
There  do  come  times  like  that,  even  to  fifteen-year- 
olds.  Or  perhaps  it  was  because  she  was  only  fifteen 
that  she  took  it  so  hard.  The  world  is  so  much 
larger  when  you  are  fifteen  than  later;  so  much 
blacker  or  more  golden,  more  heavenly  or  inexorable 


72  ROSABEL  PARADISE 

a  place.  Its  colors  haven't  softened  down.  There 
are  beautiful  rose-and-gold  promises  only  waiting 
till  your  skirt  is  a  little  longer  before  they  are 
realized.  Or  there  are  great  horrible  blacknesses 
that  never  will  lift — never,  never,  never !  And  espe 
cially  if  you  are  cowed  and  ignorant,  and  little  for 
your  age,  the  blackness  and  inevitableness  lock  tight 
around  you,  like  one  of  those  nightmares  where  you 
are  walled  into  a  little,  little  suffocating  place,  and 
never  can  get  out,  and  know  the  nightmare  is  true. 

You  never  can  tell  anything,  after  all,  about  the 
way  people  really  work  inside.  The  fact  remains: 
on  Monday  night  about  eight  o'clock,  while  her 
mother  was  out  at  a  sociable  of  the  Daughters  of 
Rebekah,  Rosabel  took  gas.  She  did  it  rather 
clumsily  and  unsuccessfully,  but  still  with  the  most 
serious  intentions.  She  had  evidently  bathed  and 
dressed,  and  tidied  the  bedroom  carefully  before  she 
turned  the  gas  on.  It  was  not  her  fault  that  her 
mother  got  back  before  she  was  quite  dead.  The 
time  she  had  taken  cleaning  up  was  what  delayed 
her  so  that  they  managed  to  save  her. 

They  made  a  terrific  fuss,  running  in  and  out, 
bringing  her  to,  and  there  was  a  whole  column  in 
the  "  Ocean  Star "  the  next  day.  "  Playmates 
Scorn  Her:  Child  Attempts  Life,"  it  was  headed. 


ROSABEL  PARADISE  73 

It  was  very  pathetic  about  the  pink  note  with  the 
embossed  forget-me-nots  in  its  corner,  on  which 
Rosabel  had  written  her  brief,  ill-spelled  reason  for 
wanting  to  die.  The  "  Ocean  Star  "  also  gave  her 
age  as  twelve  instead  of  fifteen,  and  did  not  explain 
accurately  why  the  "  playmates  "  had  ignored  Rosa 
bel.  It  gave  a  general  impression  that  it  was  a 
paper-doll  or  hoop-and-marbles  quarrel. 

The  little  red-plush  parlor  of  the  flat,  and  Rosa 
bel's  own  room,  were  filled  with  flowers  and  wreaths 
and  jelly  and  other  appropriate  things  which  the 
drill  girls  sent  Rosabel  while  she  was  recovering. 
They  were  almost  as  sorry  for  her  as  they  were 
thrilled  by  the  melodrama  of  the  affair.  Rosabel 
lay  happily  getting  better  among  the  wired  bouquets, 
playing  with  the  tin- foil  from  their  stems.  She 
would  not  disturb  the  flowers  to  hold  any  of  them. 
She  did  not  say  much — Rosabel  never  did  seem  able 
to  say  much,  which  makes  her  story  harder  to  tell. 
But  once  she  clutched  the  doctor's  wrist  as  he  bent 
cheerily  over  her,  and  asked  in  a  passionate  whisper : 
"Will  the  girls  go  with  me  when  I  get  well, 
doctor?" 

"  Of  course,  of  course,  little  girl,"  he  answered 
confidently — doctors  learn  to  say  things  confidently. 
He  lifted  her  up  on  her  pillows  a  little  more. 


74  ROSABEL  PARADISE 

"  Would — would  Martha  ever  come  to  see  me  ?  " 

The  doctor  patted  her  hand  compassionately,  and 
in  his  pity  had  almost  promised  to  bring  his  Martha 
down  to  see  poor  little  wrecked  Rosabel,  big-eyed 
and  desperate  and  helpless  among  her  pillows. 
Then  he  remembered  quickly,  as  fathers  will,  that 
pretty,  dainty  Martha  was  hard  enough  to  keep 
away  from  the  boardwalk  as  things  were :  that  she 
was  coaxing  to  be  allowed  to  stay  out  after  ten 
o'clock:  that  there  fcad  been  a  little  box  found  by 
her  mother,  labeled  "  Rouge  Dorin,"  tucked  into 
the  back  of  a  drawer.  It  was  only  a  phase,  as  it 
happened.  Martha  grew  up  as  well-bred  and 
straightforward  as  she  was  pretty,  and  married  an 
out-of-town  man,  like  all  the  better-class  Park  girls.; 
Still — fathers  are  fathers.  The  doctor  patted  Rosa 
bel's  hand  again  and  made  a  vague,  kindly  reply  that 
promised  nothing. 

But  Rosabel  was  rapturously  counting  the  number 
of  bouquets  on  washstand  and  bureau  and  sills  again 
and  scarcely  heard.  They  may  have  been  a  comfort 
to  her  mother  afterwards,  those  four  or  five  days 
when  Rosabel  lay  getting  over  the  effects  of  the  gas 
and  smiling  and  counting  her  flowers. 

Because  in  a  little  while  she  was  able  to  be  up 
and  put  on  her  magenta  cashmere,  and  steal  up  and 


ROSABEL  PARADISE  75 

down  the  boardwalk  in  the  old  way.  It  may  have 
been  the  second  day  she  was  about  that  she  met 
Beryl,  surrounded  by  her  followers.  There  was  a 
clan  of  them,  about  eight,  who  hunted  together. 
Rosabel  halted,  half -confident,  half-frightened, 
nervously  smiling. 

"  H'llo,  Beryl,"  she  said,  almost  inaudibly.  But 
Beryl— 

"  Well,  I  couldn't  speak  to  the  kid  just  'cause 
she  tried  to  c'mit  suicide,"  she  defended  herself  to 
her  followers  and  perhaps  her  conscience.  And  the 
followers  chorused,  though  a  shade  doubtfully: 
"  Naw,  'course  you  couldn't !  " 

Rosabel  did  not  move  for  a  minute  after  Beryl 
and  her  following  had  passed  on,  head  in  air.  She 
stood  still,  a  shaking,  awkward  little  figure,  till  they 
were  gone  by.  Then  they  heard  the  loud  patter  of 
her  feet,  suddenly,  and  heard  her  crying  aloud,  as 
she  ran  across  the  boardwalk  and  fled  underneath 
it.  You  could  hide  and  cry  under  the  boardwalk 
as  long  as  you  liked  in  those  days.  It's  been  done 
over  since,  and  you  can't  get  under  now.  But  then 
there  was  plenty  of  room  for  Rosabel  to  cry  in. 

The  Park  was  a  prohibition  place,  which  means 
that  all  the  drugstore  keepers  had  to  be  regular 
physicians,  so  that  they  could  give  you  prescriptions 


76  ROSABEL  PARADISE 

for  anything  else  you  asked  for,  and  they  did. 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  competition.  So  it  was 
quite  simple  for  Rosabel  to  get  all  the  laudanum  she 
wanted,  crawl  back  under  the  boardwalk,  and  take 
it  unmolested. 

This  time  she  succeeded. 

They  found  her  two  days  later,  coiled  up  like  one 
of  our  hurt  animals.  Our  cats  and  dogs  always 
went  there  to  die,  poor  beasts !  and  there  were  other 
reasons  why  men  searched  under  the  boardwalk 
often.  They  had  to  guess  at  why  she  did  it,  for 
there  was  no  note  this  time.  I  suppose  Rosabel 
thought,  rightly,  that  one  explanation  was  enough. 

There  were  no  paroxysms  of  repentance  on  our 
part  this  time,  either,  nor  any  flowers.  We  had 
done  that  once,  and  it's  difficult  to  warm  over  emo 
tions.  People  said  that — really — it  sounded  hard, 
but  the  poor  child  had  done  almost  the  only  thing 
she  could  do,  if  it  wasn't  for  losing  her  immortal 
soul.  Of  course,  if  you  think  of  our  attitude  to 
the  child  while  she  was  still  slinking  around  with  the 
soul  inside  her,  able  to  be  saved,  there  is  a  great 
deal  to  be  said  for  people's  viewpoint.  But  for  the 
first  time  in  some  years  nobody's  viewpoint  worried 
Rosabel  Paradise. 


DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL 

WHEN  Don  Andrews  was  little  his  playmates 
adored  him.  Girls  and  boys  alike,  we  would  do 
anything  on  earth  he  wanted  us  to  do.  Only  the 
boys  adored  close  by,  the  girls  from  afar.  When 
he  grew  older  we  continued  to  adore.  Don  was  of 
the  stuff  of  one's  imagined  heroes.  He  was  like 
a  knight  of  old,  strong  and  simple  and  chivalrously 
single-minded.  That  may  have  been  the  trouble. 
Most  of  us  are  so  annoy ingly  complex  nowadays, 
even  the  women.  In  the  days  of  those  knights  Don 
was  like,  women  were  content  to  be  prizes — some 
thing  given  away  at  the  end  of  a  contest,  like  a  cup. 
Nowadays  they  insist  on  being  individuals,  and  it 
throws  things  out  horribly. 

But  to  come  back  to  Don :  he  was  tall  and  grave 
and  gentle  and  strong,  with  a  vivid  smile  that  lighted 
things.  He  was  perfect  physically,  too,  and  the 
strongest  boy  in  the  Park,  with  that  unusual  muscu 
lar  development  which  looks  like  mere  grace.  You 
would  say,  to  look  at  him  from  a  trainer's  view 
point,  that  he  was  well-built  enough,  lithe  and  hand 
some  certainly,  very  fine  as  far  as  an  illustrator's 

77 


78  DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL 

ideas  went,  but  nothing  above  the  average.  Then 
you  saw  him  wrestle  or  row  or  swim  or  box,  and 
you  realized  that  it  was  the  perfection  of  strength 
concealing  strength. 

The  queer  thing  was,  nobody  was  ever  jealous  of 
the  boy.  You  might  feel  sore  for  a  minute  when 
he  easily  outclassed  you  at  the  thing  you  did  best. 
But  when  he  spoke  to  you  afterward,  gently  and  a 
bit  apologetically,  in  that  sweet,  deep,  cheering-up 
voice  of  his,  you  forgot  all  about  your  soreness. 
Then  he  smiled  at  you  and  you  loved  him. 

There  isn't  any  way  to  describe  that  smile  of 
Don  Andrews.  But  it  loved  you  and  trusted  you 
and  admired  you  and  braced  you  up  all  in  one  flash 
of  light,  and  you  went  off  feeling  as  if  somebody 
had  given  you  a  valuable  present  you'd  been  wanting 
a  long  time. 

He  was  straight,  too,  Don;  the  cleanest, 
straightest  fellow  we  knew.  He  kept  in  training  all 
the  time,  not  because  he  had  to,  especially,  but  be 
cause  he  preferred  it.  Take  him  all  around,  he  was 
one  of  the  men  you  do  come  across  once  or  twice 
in  life,  but  in  whom  nobody  believes  when  you  try 
to  tell  about  them  afterward.  They  sound  too  good 
to  be  true  or  comfortable.  But  Don  was  real. 
There  was  never  anybody  like  Don  Andrews! 


DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL  79 

Naturally,  the  strongest  fellow  in  town  has  to  be 
a  bully,  or  a  Lord  Protector;  but  Don  carried  his 
magnanimity,  it  seemed  to  us  all  sometimes,  to  a 
point  of  fantastic  chivalry.  He  was  the  small  boys' 
guardian  angel.  Also  if  you  wanted  a  thorough 
whipping  that  was  as  swiftly  effortless  on  Don's 
part  as  it  was  swiftly  over  on  yours  you  had  only  to 
pick  a  quarrel  with  some  one  your  physical  in 
ferior.  But  for  himself — for  himself  Don  was 
maddening!  Anything  short  of  a  straightout  inso 
lence  he  would  meet  only  with  gentleness,  and  that 
imperturbable  charm  of  his.  To  be  sure  the  ag 
gressor,  who  was  always,  of  course,  a  newcomer, 
was  certain  to  succumb  to  Don's  flashing  smile  and 
his  steady,  kind  charm.  Also  Don's  known  strength 
made  fights  a  rare  necessity  for  him.  But  it  seemed 
that  his  knowledge  that  he  was  bound  to  win  made 
him  feel  that  it  wasn't  fair  for  him  to  play  the 
game  at  all.  Oh,  it  is  hard  to  make  you  see  how 
everybody  loved  Don,  how  he  drew  love  out  of  you 
as  if  there  was  some  curious  force  in  him  that  took 
it.  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  that  his  own  nature 
was  love,  that  he  had  so  much  loving-kindness  to 
give  away  that  the  merest  acquaintance,  perhaps,  got 
as  much  as  most  of  us  have  to  give  our  own.  And 
then  his  gallant  Northman  good  looks,  and  the 


8o  DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL 

swift,  gentle  strength  and  bravery  of  him!  You 
had  to  love  Don ! 

Of  course  the  girls  were  wild  about  him,  every 
last  one.  But,  as  I  told  you,  they  had  to  adore  from 
afar.  There  was  a  very  simple  reason :  Ida  Fitz- 
brien.  Even  since  Don  had  been  twelve  and  Ida  ten, 
they  had  "  gone  together,"  through  our  winter  vil 
lage  life  and  our  summer  visitor-whirl.  They  were 
as  true  to  each  other,  from  the  time  they  were  little 
children,  as  if  they  had  been  married. 

Ida  was  a  silent,  slim  little  thing,  an  ordinary 
type  enough  of  the  pretty  American  girl,  with  brown 
hair  and  blue  eyes  and  not  much  color.  She  had  a 
caressing,  clinging  sort  of  way  when  she  did  speak, 
but  there  was  not  about  her  anything  especial  that 
you  could  notice,  except  that  she  was  Don  Andrews' 
girl. 

That  was  the  way  they  pointed  her  out  at  the 
canoe  races  and  the  meets  and  the  ball  games.  She 
sat  silently  in  the  reflection  of  Don's  glory  and  let 
herself  be  envied  by  the  rest  of  the  girls.  She  never 
interfered  with  anything  he  wanted  to  do,  or 
dragged  on  him  at  all,  or  showed  the  least  jealousy 
of  his  friends.  She  was  simply  always  there,  un 
obtrusively  in  the  background,  quietly  owning  him; 
"  Don  Andrews'  girl."  To  be  sure,  a  girl  has  very 


DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL  81 

little  chance  to  stray  when  she  is  marked  out  as 
belonging  to  the  strongest  boy  in  the  place.  But 
Ida  seemed  perfectly  content  to  watch  Don  ador 
ingly  as  he  went  his  worshiped  way.  And  he  gave 
her  in  return  the  first  and  best  love  he  had.  And 
think  what  that  must  have  been ! 

And  still  he  went  on  his  way,  bound  to  his  fan 
tastically  high  standards  by  the  responsibility  of  his 
unconquerableness,  as  a  knight  is  bound  by  his  vows. 
Quincy  Ferrier,  who  would  have  been  a  bit  of  a 
bully  in  Don's  position — he  was  a  sort  of  second- 
in-command  as  it  was,  and  Don's  chum — expressed 
it  crossly  once.  He  had  been  raging  at  the  Golden 
Rule  fashion  by  which  Don  had  won  some  especial 
brute  to  friendliness,  instead  of  knocking  him  end 
wise  as  we  had  all  yearned  to  see  done. 

"  Humph,"  he  growled,  "  Don's  mind's  muscle- 
bound,  that's  all  it  is.  He  just  physically  can't  be 
mean  to  people,  any  more  than  a  coal-heaver  can 
play  tennis."  And  Quincy  softly  invited  Don's 
newest  friend  out  into  a  soothing  place  behind 
Allen  Lake,  where  there  were  pines  and  little  birds 
and  things,  and  reduced  him  to  the  state  of  the 
unspeakably  licked.  And  we  all  felt  better. 

Well,  Don  grew  up  and  went  to  work,  and  mar 
ried  Ida.  They  weren't  rich,  of  course,  but  he  had 


82  DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL 

a  good  position.  His  gift  of  handling  men  would 
have  always  made  it  easy  for  him  to  get  anything  in 
the  way  of  work  he  wanted. 

Ida  and  Don  were  twenty  and  twenty-two  when 
they  married.  They  were  young,  of  course,  but  no 
younger  than  many  of  the  other  girls  and  boys  who 
had  dropped  High  School  to  settle  down,  house 
holders  and  proud  owners  of  plump  babies.  They 
built  a  nice  little  bungalow  over  on  North  Sixth 
Avenue,  where  the  young  married  people  settle,  and 
started  in  to  live  happily  ever  after. 

They  did,  as  far  as  anybody  ever  knew,  at  first. 
They  had  a  baby,  a  splendid  little  fellow,  the  copy  of 
his  father,  as  all  first  sons  should  be,  and  Don  was 
wild  over  him.  Ida  was  fond  of  the  child,  but  Don 
was  simply  wrapped  up  in  him.  And  Don  went  on 
winning  cups  all  up  and  down  the  coast,  and  Ida 
went  on  watching  him,  as  she  had  done  for  ten 
years.  That  is  all  there  is  to  tell  about  them  for  the 
first  year  and  a  half. 

Then  by  and  by,  no  one  knew  exactly  whence  or 
how,  rumors  began  to  slide  around  that  Ida  wasn't 
staying  at  home  as  much  as  she  should.  But  this 
was  at  the  beginning  of  the  summer  when  every 
body  and  everything  is  standing  on  its  head  getting 
ready  for  the  summer  people,  so  nobody  had  time 


DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL  83 

to  pay  much  attention.  But  later,  when  we  had 
rented  our  houses  and  got  our  hotels  in  running 
order,  and  had  time  to  meet  breathlessly  between 
summer  people,  we  began  to  hear  more  about  Ida. 
We  didn't  believe  it,  even  here  in  the  glad-to-believe- 
anything  Park.  Ida  had  been  silly  enough  to 
peroxide  her  hair,  and  she  was  rouging  too  heavily; 
perhaps,  we  thought,  that  was  why  people  said 
things.  Because  what  would  she  do  it  for — married 
to  Don! 

Next  season  she  began  to  be  seen  about  in  queer 
places  with  summer  men  of  the  cheaply-sporty  sort, 
and,  finally,  nights  when  Don  was  known  to  be  busy, 
she  appeared  alone  on  the  boardwalk,  "  picking-up." 
After  that,  unfortunately,  there  were  no  two  ways 
about  believing  things. 

When  conviction  first  was  forced  on  us  we 
gasped.  Ida,  of  all  girls!  If  it  had  been  Dollie 
Valentine  nobody  would  have  been  surprised — 
black-eyed,  excitable  little  Dollie  over  at  Radnor 
Beach,  where  all  they  could  do  was  work  summer 
men  for  good  times.  Or  nobody  would  have  been 
astonished  if  Leila  Graves  had  gone  under — Leila, 
whose  happy-go-lucky  father  kept  the  fastest  hotel 
in  town.  But  Ida!  Shy  little  caressing  Ida  Fitz- 
brien,  who  had  never  lifted  her  eyes  from  Don  for 


84  DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL 

ten  years,  who  had  followed  him  about  like  an  unob 
trusive  dog — Ida,  who  was  married  to  Don,  our 
Don,  with  a  baby  the  very  copy  of  him !  Ida,  with 
her  hair  bleached  staring  yellow,  and  her  cheeks 
painted  a  shrieking  pink,  dancing  till  all  hours  at 
the  Casino  with  any  cheap  man  she  could  pick  up 
on  the  boardwalk!  Ida,  with  Don  worshiping  the 
ground  she  trod  on — Don,  who  had  never  even 
kissed  another  girl — Ida  trying  clumsily  to  attract 
flashily  well-off  rounders  to  pay  for  a  few  drinks 
and  dances  and  roadhouse  dinners ! 

The  first  thing  we  thought  about  was  not  so  much 
Ida's  wickedness  as  her  amazing  idiocy.  The  next 
was  a  feeling  of  resentment.  To  think  of  her  doing 
such  a  thing  to  Don!  Little,  quiet  Ida,  who  had 
been  going  around  in  Don's  reflected  glory  these  ten 
years,  and  glad  to  get  the  chance !  It  was  more  than 
wicked — it  was  downright  impertinent!  We  felt, 
we  who  loved  Don,  as  if  she  had  slapped  us  in  the 
face.  And  it  was  so  incomprehensible. 

It  could  not  have  been  Don's  goodness  that  she 
cared  for,  we  thought,  nor  even  his  good  looks,  nor 
his  charm.  What  had  attracted  her  in  the  man  she 
married  must  have  been  his  great  strength,  that 
Arthurian  prowess  which  had  made  him  a  notable 
figure  all  up  and  down  the  coast.  She  must  have 


DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL  85 

taken  that  prowess  as  an  earnest  of  some  thrilling 
domination  in  him,  some  masterfulness  or  brutality. 
And  Don,  unfortunately  for  his  married  happiness, 
was  exceptionally  far  from  being  a  brute.  He  was  a 
very  perfect,  gentle  knight,  who  could  no  more 
have  "  done  any  despite  fulness  to  a  lady  "  than  Sir 
Launcelot.  Most  girls  think  they  want  masterfulness 
• — till  they  marry.  Then  they  are  glad  enough  if 
they  find  their  wills  unbruised  by  irrational  lordli 
ness.  But  Ida,  little  animal  that  she  was,  seemed  to 
have  needed,  and  indeed  longed  for,  the  excitement 
of  the  whip.  And  she  was  married  to  a  man  whose 
gentleness  and  courtesy  were  as  unshakable  as  his 
own  great  power. 

Of  course  she  couldn't  understand  Don's  attitude 
toward  her  in  her  misbehavior.  Neither  could  we, 
at  first.  But  it  was  the  old  Don-attitude.  That 
strange  inability  to  be  anything  but  magnanimous  to 
any  one  in  his  power  held  him  still.  He  guarded 
Ida  as  if  he  were  her  father.  He  kept  her  from 
what  he  could,  and  when  he  could  not  he  went  with 
her  to  her  questionable  places,  to  give  her  at  least 
the  shelter  of  his  presence.  He  learned  to  dance  so 
that  he  could  be  seen  at  the  dance-places  with  her. 
He  went  to  the  drinking-places  with  her  and  her 
men.  You  would  see  him  sitting  there  with  them, 


86  DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL 

like  a  big  brown  statue  in  the  middle  of  a  lot  of 
silly  wax  figures,  always  gravely  courteous. 

Also  he  did  his  own  man-work  and  Ida's  mother- 
work.  He  would  come  home  from  his  office  at 
night  and  care  for  the  boy,  whom  Ida  had  tired  of  as 
casually  as  if  he  were  a  doll.  And  our  hearts 
broke. 

Quincy  Ferrier,  who  loved  Don  more  than  he 
did  his  own  people,  went  over  to  see  him  one  hot 
night  when  he  knew  Don  would  be  at  home,  work 
ing.  He  found  him  in  the  little  mission  living-room, 
figuring  at  a  table.  His  boy  lay  fast  asleep  on  the 
table  on  couch-cushions,  shaded  from  the  drop-light, 
with  both  fists  curled  up  under  the  little  face  so 
absurdly  like  his  father's.  Don  looked  up  with  his 
vivid  smile  as  Quincy  passed  in  through  the  open 
door,  set  wide  to  let  in  the  night  breeze. 

"  Hello,  old  boy !  "  he  said  cordially.  "  What  are 
you  doing  so  far  from  the  electric  lights  this  sort 
of  anight?" 

Quincy's  throat  hurt  as  he  looked  at  Don — he 
was  so  splendid,  and  so  cruelly  young  to  be  sitting 
there  alone  under  the  weight  of  his  sordid  tragedy, 
guarding  his  boy. 

They  slid  into  commonplaces  for  a  while.  Quincy 
had  the  hardest  work  ahead  of  him  that  he  had  ever 


DON  ANDREV  7  GIRL  87 

done,  and  small  blame  to  him  if  he  dallied  a  little. 
Finally  Don  threw  his  arm  over  Quincy's  shoulder. 

"  What  is  it,  Quincy  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Anything  I 
can  straighten  out  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Quiney  burst  out,  "  but,  oh, 
Don,  I'd  give  anything  in  the  world  if  you  could !  " 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  said  Don. 

Quincy  Ferrier  stared  straight  ahead  at  the  green 
art-glass  light  that  thrust  out  over  the  shiny,  empty 
new  fireplace. 

"  It's — it's  Ida,  Don,"  he  began  desperately. 

Don's  hand  clasped  down  a  little  heavier  on 
Quincy's  shoulder. 

"  I  know,"  he  said  gently,  "  I  know,  and  it's  like 
you  to  care,  Quincy.  But  you  can't  help  things — 
nobody  can.  I  married  her,  so  I've  got  to  look  after 
her  the  best  I  can.  I'm  responsible  for  her,  you 
see.  Now  don't  let's  talk  about  it  any  more." 

So  they  did  not  talk  about  it  any  more.  When 
Quincy  went  away  that  night  late,  -Don  was  still 
sitting  under  the  bright  light,  working,  with  the 
sleeping  baby  among  the  litter  of  his  papers ;  young 
and  gallant  and  alone. 

And  there  was  no  way  to  do  anything  to  Ida. 
That  was  the  tough  part  of  the  whole  thing. 

It  was  scarcely  a  month  later  that  Ida  planned  a 


88  DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL 

party  which  was  to  have  an  extensive  alcoholic  feast 
at  as  late  an  hour  as  possible,  in  as  yellow  a  cafe 
as  could  be  found  in  the  vicinity.  Don  went  with 
her.  She  had  not  wanted  him  to  know  about  it,  but 
she  made  a  sulky  best  of  it. 

They  were  a  creditable  enough  crowd  as  far  as 
appearances  went.  Ida's  latest  was  the  kind  whom 
dissipation  makes  hollow-cheeked  and  deep-eyed,  not 
red  and  puffy.  In  fact,  he  was  a  cocainer,  by  which 
you  may  see  that  Ida  didn't  much  care,  so  it  was  a 
good  spender.  Ida  herself  was  always  a  pretty  little 
thing  enough,  in  spite  of  her  heavy  hand  with  the 
make-up.  Her  shoulders  were  half  out  of  her 
orange  satin,  and  she  was  making  crude  but  rather 
effective  play  with  her  man.  The  girl  next  Don  was 
a  slim,  scarlet-cheeked  affair  with  black  hair  and 
long  eyes  and  a  floppy  scarlet  frock  that  matched 
her  cheeks.  She  was  being  nice  to  Don  and  he  was 
being  about  as  responsive  as  a  man  on  a  magazine- 
cover.  That  is,  as  his  scarlet-cheeked  partner  prob 
ably  counted  responsiveness.  He  was  pleasant 
enough  to  her,  of  course.  Whether  he  loved  Ida 
still  or  not,  nobody  knew.  It  didn't  seem  likely. 
But  neither,  to  us  who  knew  Don,  did  it  seem  likely 
that  he  would  ever  care  for  anybody  else.  But  the 
scarlet  girl  couldn't  know  that,  I  suppose.  As  for 


DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL  89 

the  other  two  couples,  they  were  the  background 
kind,  fillers-in. 

We  looked  at  the  party  sitting  there  laughing  in 
the  lights,  and  looked  hastily  away.  It  hurt  to  see 
Don  guarding  that  worthless  little  thing,  and  fet 
tered  to  a  course  of  action  as  far  above  her  under 
standing  as  it  would  have  been  above  a  spaniel's. 

A  little  laugh  and  whisper  that  ignored  Don  went 
round  their  table.  The  scarlet  girl  braced  indig 
nantly,  then,  seeing  Don  had  apparently  not  noticed, 
went  on  hurriedly  talking  to  him.  Ida  was  ridi 
culing  him,  of  course,  scoffing  at  his  patience.  Don 
went  evenly  on  with  his  talk  to  his  partner,  with  his 
drink  scarcely  touched. 

"  Sure,"  Ida  had  whispered,  giggling  hysterically, 
"  he  isn't  among  those  present  'cause  he  likes  good 
times.  He's  chaperoning  me,  that's  what  he's  doing. 
Wish  he'd  cheer  up  a  little  bit!  Makes  me  tired, 
sitting  there  like  a  mummy." 

"  I  can  liven  him  up,  I  bet  you,"  whispered  Ida's 
man.  "Want  me  to?" 

"M'hm,"  said  Ida  expectantly.  "Bet  you 
can't!" 

"  Can't  I,  dearie  ?  "  he  whispered  back,  "  just  you 
watch!" 

It  was  really  admirably  clever,  the  way  he  slid 


90  DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL 

a  thick  pinch  of  powder  from  some  hidden  pocket 
into  Don's  cocktail,  where  it  sank  and  dissolved. 

"  Now,  get  him  to  drink  it,  and  if  he  doesn't  cheer 
tip  right  away,  I'm  a  liar ! "  he  said.  He  cheered 
himself  behind  his  napkin  with  the  like  powder  fur 
tively  as  he  spoke.  "  Make  him  drink  it,"  he  told 
Ida,  "  and  the  coke'll  do  the  rest." 

Ida  wasn't  feeling  any  too  kindly  to  Don  that 
night.  Sometimes  she  was  willing  enough  to  have 
him  around,  for  the  sake  of  the  respectability  his 
presence  gave  her.  But  tonight  he  interfered  with 
her  plans,  and  she  was  cross  accordingly.  She  felt 
malicious,  and  like  doing  any  little  thing  to  Don 
she  could.  She  sent  another  whisper  around  the 
table,  to  watch  the  fun,  then  set  the  whole  pack  on 
him. 

"  Don  isn't  drinking  his  one  little  cocktail, 
bunch,"  she  called  out  to  the  tableful.  "Little 
Donald,  the  temperance  advocate !  Go  on,  Don,  be 
a  sport !  Finish  it !  " 

She  brought  the  whole  of  them,  warned  of  the 
joke,  swooping  down  on  Don,  demanding  shrilly 
that  he  drink  his  cocktail.  That  is,  all  but  the 
scarlet  girl.  They  had  learned  that  it  wasn't  much 
use  to  invite  her  to  help  in  a  joke  on  Don. 

It  didn't  matter  especially  to  Don  whether  he 


DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL  91 

drank  his  cocktail  then  or  not,  so  he  finished  the 
howlings  as  swiftly  as  possible  by  swallowing  it. 
Ida  leaned  back  to  her  man,  the  other  women  leaned 
back  to  theirs,  and  the  whisperings  and  drinkings 
went  on  again,  all  of  them  watching  Don  expec 
tantly  at  intervals.  There  was  no  perceptible  effect 
on  Don.  The  scarlet-cheeked  girl  leaned  to  him 
again  and  moved  her  white  shoulders  at  him,  and 
lured  him,  the  only  way  she  knew,  with  lips  and 
eyes  and  hands  and  provocative  whispers.  He  an 
swered  her,  as  gently  courteous  as  before.  That 
was  all. 

The  others,  watching,  felt  cheated.  So  did  Ida, 
especially. 

"What  sort  of  livening  up  do  you  call  that?" 
she  taunted  her  partner.  "  What  did  you  give  him, 
Mellin's  Food?  Thought  you  were  a  regular  little 
devil  that  used  real  cocaine." 

But  the  man's  sense,  drug-sharpened,  felt  some 
thing  wrong. 

"  Better  be  careful,"  he  said.  "  He  may  get  ugly 
or  paralyzed.  We'd  better  beat  it  for  the  car." 

"  Aw,  piker ! "  said  Ida,  and  leaned  farther  to 
ward  him.  He  shrank  away.  He  had  awakened  to 
the  fact  that  Don  had  turned  from  the  girl  in  scarlet, 
and  was  openly,  silently  watching  Ida,  the  pupils  of 


92  DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL 

his  yellow-brown  eyes  dilated  like  a  cat's.  Don 
watched  a  long  minute.  Then  he  spoke  softly, 
clearly : 

"  Cut  it  out,  Ida,"  he  said. 

Ida  laughed  and  leaned  nearer  the  other  man. 

"Did  you  hear  me,  Ida?"  Don  asked,  still 
quietly. 

"  Oh,  yes — I  heard  you !  "  she  said.  She  laughed 
shrilly,  turning  her  bare  shoulder  to  him,  and  flung 
her  arm  around  the  other  man's  reluctant  neck. 

The  next  thing  that  happened  was  that  Don  sprang 
straight  at  Ida's  man  like  a  big  cat,  and  threw  him 
on  the  floor  as  if  he  were  an  old  coat.  He  struck 
Ida  aside  in  passing — only  in  passing — but  the  force 
of  the  blow  sent  her  hard  against  the  next  table, 
where  a  glass,  breaking,  cut  her  face.  She  picked 
herself  quietly  up  and  sat  down  again,  pressing  her 
cheek  with  her  napkin  and  watching  Don.  She 
looked  for  all  the  world  as  she  had  always  looked, 
sitting  still  and  complacent  in  a  good  place  on  the 
sidelines,  watching  Don  at  some  feat  which  re 
flected  its  glory  on  her. 

It  looked  ghastly — Don  Andrews  making  a  brutal 
scene  in  public — Don  Andrews  savagely  punishing 
a  man  who  had  no  chance  whatever  with  him ! 

There  is  a  thing  the  doctors  tell  you  about,  called 


DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL  93 

inhibition.  A  muscle,  or  perhaps  a  kinked  nerve, 
closes  down  on  some  other  muscle  or  nerve,  and 
locks  it.  The  locked  muscle  is  all  right — perfectly 
well  and  strong — but  you  have  no  more  use  of  it 
than  if  it  were  not  there. 

I  think  Don's  self-restraint  and  magnanimity,  all 
the  years  he  had  been  stronger  than  anybody  else, 
too  powerful  to  use  his  power  without  selfishness, 
had  locked  the  strength  down.  He  literally  had 
not  been  able  to  let  go  and  be  self-interested,  even 
when  his  life-happiness  was  in  question.  It  was  an 
inhibition.  And  the  cocaine  had  broken  it  for  a 
while.  The  knight  was  released  for  a  little  from 
his  vows. 

The  amazing  part  of  the  whole  thing  was  the 
quietness  of  it,  and  the  way  we  all  stood  back  in 
our  ring  like  people  at  a  play  and  let  it  happen. 
Except  for  Ida's  half-cry  and  the  slight  crash  of 
glass  at  the  beginning  of  things  there  had  been 
scarcely  any  noise.  You  see,  the  majority  of  the 
people  there  that  night  were  townspeople  who  knew 
Don  and  his  story.  We  would  not  have  lifted  a 
finger  if  Don  had  killed  the  man  outright — yes,  and 
beaten  Ida,  worthless  little  painted  animal  that  we 
held  her !  The  other  two  men  of  the  party  had  left 
unobtrusively  at  the  first  possible  moment.  As  for 


94  DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL 

the  other  girls,  they  stood  and  watched  the  fight 
almost  with  Ida's  expression  of  pleased  admiration. 
Only  the  slim  girl  in  scarlet  was  opening  and  shut 
ting  her  hands  and  breathing  so  you  could  hear  her. 

You  cannot  break  a  broken  man,  but  Don  came 
near  accomplishing  the  impossible.  The  man 
cringed  and  jumped  if  he  was  spoken  to  or  touched 
suddenly,  for  months  afterward. 

"  You  come  with  me,"  Don  flung  to  Ida  when  he 
had  made  an  end,  turning  from  the  stained  and 
crumpled  thing  on  the  floor.  He  used  precisely  the 
tone  you  use  to  a  disobedient  dog.  And  Ida,  her 
face  still  lighted  with  the  rapture  of  his  fight,  fol 
lowed  with  a  dog's  swift,  worshiping  abjectness. 

The  people  from  the  tables  went  softly  back  to 
their  places,  taking  the  long  breath  one  draws  when 
a  thrilling  play  is  done.  The  proprietor  came  and 
began  zealously  to  pick  up  the  pieces  and  help  the 
policeman  who  drifted  in  to  hunt  for  people  to 
arrest.  He  looked  contented,  in  spite  of  his  spoiled 
glassware.  He  knew  Don,  too. 

Don  walked  rapidly  home,  never  looking  at  Ida. 
She  had  trouble  keeping  up,  but  she  toiled  along 
bravely,  never  asking  any  halt  or  mercy.  When 
they  reached  the  bungalow  she  was  too  spent  to  do 
anything  but  drop  on  the  living-room  couch  and 


DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL  95 

pant  for  breath.  But  she  never  took  her  watching, 
adoring  eyes  off  Don. 

He  sat  down  at  his  table  and  looked  at  her  in  the 
old  quiet  way.  The  cocaine  had  died  out  of  him, 
leaving  no  particular  after-effects. 

"  I'm  going  to  divorce  you,  Ida,"  he  said  slowly. 
"  I  don't  think  I  can  stand  any  more  of  this.  I'd 
let  you  get  the  divorce,  but  you  might  be  given  the 
boy,  and  I  can't  risk  that.  Better  go  upstairs  now 
and  get  some  sleep.  You  have  a  lot  to  do  tomorrow, 
getting  packed." 

"You're  going  to  get  rid  of  me?"  she  asked. 
He  nodded.  "  Well,  I  don't  blame  you,"  she  said, 
getting  wearily  off  the  couch,  "  and — I  forgive 
you." 

Don  looked  as  if  she  had  taken  leave  of  her 
senses,  and  as  she  crossed  the  room  she  laughed  a 
little,  a  mournful  little  attempt  at  a  laugh.  "  You 
think  that's  the  finishing  insult,  don't  you?  I  sup 
pose  it  is — and  yet — I've  a  good  deal  to  forgive  you 
for,  Don!" 

Don  did  not  answer.  It  seemed  scarcely  worth 
answering,  of  course.  Ida  stopped  where  she  was, 
at  the  door,  and  turned  on  him,  speaking  now  with 
a  fire  he  had  never  seen  in  her  before.  She  looked 
straight  at  him  and  her  eyes  held  his. 


96  DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  very  well  you've  kept  straight 
and  I  haven't — and  that  mighty  few  men  do.  But 
that — it  wasn't  fighting  temptation — for  you. 
You're  better  than  most  people.  And  I'd  rather 
you'd  have  done  something  like  that  than  what  you 
did  to  me — it'd  have  been  kinder !  " 

"What  do  you  think  I  have  done?"  he  asked. 
He  wondered  if  she  were  partly  insane — if  all  her 
behavior  since  their  marriage  had  been,  after  all,  the 
action  of  a  deranged  mind.  Ida  straightened  her 
self  against  the  door.  Her  tears  had  dried,  and 
streaked  the  rouge,  but  there  was  a  dignity  in  her 
expression  that  he  had  never  seen  before,  as  if  she 
felt  right  to  be  on  her  side. 

"  I've  never  had  any  chance  to  be  happy,"  she 
said,  "  that's  all !  You  were  the  biggest  and  best 
and  strongest  boy  in  the  Park  when  you  picked  me 
out  to  go  with.  I  was  ten  and  you  were  twelve.  Of 
course  I  was  proud — anybody'd  have  been.  And  of 
course,  after  that,  I  belonged  to  you,  so  far  as 
everybody  felt,  as  if  you'd  bought  me — as  long  as 
you  chose  to  keep  me.  You  chose  to  keep  me 
always.  I  didn't  like  you  more  than  any  of  the 
others.  I  never  loved  you.  I  went  because  I  was 
little  and  docile  and  proud  of  being  noticed.  There 
wasn't  any  choice.  And  I  might  as  well  have 


DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL  97 

walked  into  a  jail  because  I  thought  it  was  a  pretty 
building.  After  that  there  wasn't  any  me — just 
Don  Andrews'  girl." 

She  stopped  for  breath.  "  Go  on,"  said  her  hus 
band  quietly. 

"  It  sounds  like  nothing  to  you,"  she  said,  "  but  it 
was  everything,  all  the  time,  for  me.  No  other  boy 
ever  thought  of  asking  me  to  do  anything.  The 
girls,  even,  left  me  out  of  things  rather,  because  I 
belonged  to  you  so  entirely — I  might  as  well  have 
been  a  married  woman  since  I  was  ten.  You  were 
so  strong,  and  every  one  worshiped  you  so — why, 
they  envied  me,  all  those  twelve  shut-up  years,  as  if 
I  was  a  queen!  And  there  wasn't  anything  to  do 
but  go  on  being  a  queen.  I  never  even  thought  of 
breaking  away.  I  thought  when  we  were  married  I 
would  find  all  the  things  and  all  the  happiness  I'd 
been  missing,  and  feeling  as  if  it  was  my  fault 
I  missed  all  those  years.  I  didn't.  I  liked  having  a 
house  of  my  own,  for  a  while,  and  a  baby.  But 
pretty  soon  the  old  dreadful  empty  feeling  came 
back — I  wasn't  me.  I'd  never  had  a  chance  to  be 
me,  or  to  be  young,  or  free,  or  have  a  good  time  of 
my  own.  I'd  never  been  in  love.  I'd  never  been 
courted.  And  now  there  wasn't  any  marrying  to 
look  forward  to — nothing  to  look  forward  to! 


98  DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL 

Then  I  found  out  that  there  were  men  who'd  look  at 
me — there  were  good  times  I  could  have,  I,  Ida, 
not  Don  Andrews'  girl !  I'd  never  had  a  lover,  nor 
any  freedom — any  girl  good  times.  You  kept  me 
out  of  all  that  with  your  ownership.  Oh,  it  wasn't 
very  funny,  after  all — but  I  was  me,  anyway. 
Those  brutes  I  went  with,  they  treated  me  as  if  I 
was  a  separate  human  being,  not  your  household 
goods.  I  went  with  brutes  because  only  brutes 
would  have  done  it.  Love  them!  I  tried  hard 
enough  to,  but  I've  never  loved  any  man — never 
been  given  the  chance.  And  then — well,  tonight, 
when  you  smashed  things  up  so  and  acted  for  the 
first  time  as  if  I  was  worth  defending — I  felt  as  if 
I  loved  you.  I  never  did  before.  I  don't  see  why, 
because  you  were  just  rubbing  in  all  the  own 
ership  I'd  resented  so  long — but  I  did — and  I 
do. 

"  Funny,  isn't  it,  that  I  should  forgive  you,  and 
love  you,  just  when  you're  hating  me  and  putting 
me  out  of  the  house?  And  it  would  sound  funny 
enough  to  anybody  to  hear  me  talk  about  forgiving 
you!  Well,  I  do.  Only  remember — I  wasn't  ever 
me.  I  was  just  Don  Andrews'  girl.  And — it's  me, 
of  my  own  free  will,  that  loves  you  now,  if  that 
helps  you  to  get  back  at  me  more.  I've  messed 


DON  ANDREWS'  GIRL  99 

everything.  You've  more  than  a  right  to  get  rid 
of  me " 

Her  face  worked,  and  she  turned  hastily  and  ran 
out  of  the  room.  He  could  hear  her  flying  feet  on. 
the  stairs,  and  her  sobs  as  she  ran.  Then,  move 
ments  overhead,  and  after  a  while,  silence. 

Don  sat  still  where  she  had  left  him.  He  sat 
there  rigid  for  half  an  hour,  staring  straight  ahead. 
Suddenly  he  rose  and  went  upstairs. 

Ida,  clad  in  her  street  clothes,  was  kneeling  by  her 
locked  trunk.  Her  head  was  down  on  one  arm. 
The  other  hand,  out-thrown,  was  clenched  on  some 
thing.  He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Ida,"  he  said,  "  do  you  want  to  try  again?  " 


BLACK  MAGIC 

KAOMI  AINSLIE  looked  out  the  window  thought 
fully.  It  was  half-light  in  her  studio;  her  friend 
Leila  Adair,  watching  her,  could  scarcely  see  more 
than  the  outline  of  her  head,  with  its  smoothly 
brushed  hair  and  colorless,  regular  profile.  They 
had  both  been  quiet  for  a  long  time. 

"  I'm  glad  Ethan's  happy,"  she  said  finally, 
though  they  had  not  been  talking  of  her  cousin 
Ethan,  nor,  indeed,  of  anything,  for  half  an  hour. 
"  But  it  seems  strange  that  it  should  be  Ethan,  not 
Quincy.  It  was  always  Quincy  who  had  everything 
on  earth  that  people  could  give  him,  like  the  prince 
in  the  fairy  tales.  And  Ethan  has  always  carried 
the  burdens  and  been  in  the  background." 

"  I  think  that's  all  the  more  reason  why  Ethan 
should  have  a  chance,"  protested  Leila  vigorously. 
She  had  been  lounging  luxuriously  in  Naomi's 
big  chair,  plump  and  duskily  pretty  in  the  fire 
light;  now  she  sat  intently  forward.  "I  haven't 
seen  Quincy  for  years.  But  he  was  always  a 
charmer ;  the  gayest,  handsomest  thing  you  ever  saw. 

100 


BLACK  MAGIC  101 

He  could  get  anything  he  wanted,  out  of  anybody, 
and  yet  he  played  fair." 

"  Both  the  boys  play  fair,"  said  their  cousin 
loyally.  "  And  I  only  wish  there'd  been  enough 
happiness  to  go  around.  But  of  course  there  isn't 
much,  most  places.  There's  fun,  thank  goodness! 
And  there's  consciousness  of  rectitude,  or  what 
ever  you  call  it.  That's  really  a  lot  of  help,  when 
you  happen  to  have  been  brought  up  to  be  good 
whether  or  no." 

When  Naomi  began  to  talk  Leila  generally  let  her 
philosophize  as  long  as  she  wanted  to,  because  it 
wasn't  often  she  would  do  it.  And  she  had  an  un 
canny  way  of  learning  things  about  people  which 
most  don't  get  told. 

"  It  was  because  Quincy  always  did  get  the  most 
out  of  life  that  it  seems  strange  he  isn't  going  on 
with  it,"  she  said. 

"  What  was  it  ? "  demanded  Leila  plumply. 
"Was  it  anybody's  fault  particularly?" 

"  Well,"  Naomi  answered  slowly,  "  of  course 
nothing  in  the  world  is  absolutely  one  person's 
fault.  Sometimes  it  seemed  to  me  more  like  black 
magic  than  anything  else.  But  any  amount  of 
people  and  things  and  environments,  most  of  them 
well-meaning,  are  to  blame  every  time  something 


102  BLACK  MAGIC 

breaks.  Yet  it  does  seem  to  me  that  if  Catherine's 
own  people  had  been  just  a  little  more  fantastic  in 
their  point  of  view  nothing  need  have  happened.  If 
they  hadn't  tried  to  make  a  conventional  young 
lady  out  of  a  woman  who  could  have  been  the 
leader  of  a  great  movement  or  the  prophetess  of  a 
faith 

"  But  there  it  is  again.  They  saw  things  as  most 
fathers  and  mothers  in  the  world  would  have  seen 
them,  from  the  sensible,  walled-in  cell  of  middle- 
age;  as  Catherine  herself  might  have  seen  them 
if  she  had  married  and  had  daughters  of  her 
own." 

"  Catherine  ?    What  Catherine  ?  "  asked  Leila. 

"  Catherine  James — don't  you  remember  little 
Catherine  over  in  Allenwood?  Her  people  never 
let  her  play  much  with  the  Park  children.  They 
made  an  exception  of  me  on  state  occasions,  I  sup 
pose  because  I  was  the  minister's  daughter." 

"I— think  so,"  said  Leila  slowly.  "She  had 
long  fair  hair,  and  a  sort  of  surprised  look.  And 
she  never  talked  much." 

".Yes.  I  lost  sight  of  her  after  mother  and  I 
moved  away.  Then  we  came  back  on  business, 
years  later.  We  were  all  grown  up  then.  Cather 
ine  was  about  twenty-six,  I  think.  She  was  thirty 


BLACK  MAGIC  103 

the  last  time  I  saw  her — and  the  last  time  Quincy 
saw  her.  Do  you  know  Mira  Doremus  ?  " 

"  She  acts  Ibsen,  doesn't  she  ?  And  they  say  she 
throws  things  at  her  maid,"  said  Leila,  taking  the 
abrupt  change  coolly. 

"  I  can't  imagine  her  doing  anything  else,"  said 
Naomi,  coolly  also.  "  Incidentally  some  one  told  me 
that  she's  a  nervous  wreck;  that  she  can't  act  much 
longer.  I  can't  say  I'm  sorry.  Oh,  well — Mira 
couldn't  help  being  what  she  was,  either  ...  I 
suppose.  .  .  .  She  always  reminded  me  of  some 
destructive  natural  force.  She  mayn't  have  been 
normal,  but  she  was  amazingly  dynamic,  and  people 
say  now  that  the  way  your  brain  is  built  is  respon 
sible  for  whether  you  are  kind-hearted  or  not.  She 
was  always  a  little  afraid,  herself,  of  going  mad,  I 
know.  No,  I  suppose  in  a  way  it  was  nobody's 
fault.  But  I  always  wanted  to  have  Mira  punished 
for  it.  Such  as  she  usually  got  poisoned  in  the  end 
by  some  anonymous  person,  in  their  proper  habitat, 
the  Renaissance.  Those  good  days  are  over,  alas !  " 
She  turned  to  face  Leila,  almost  invisible  now  in  the 
gathering  winter  darkness,  and  swept  ahead  with 
her  story. 

"  Catherine  James  was  the  stuff  from  which  are 
made  saints  and  martyrs  and  perfect  mothers.  She 


104  BLACK  MAGIC 

was  strong  and  single-hearted  and — there  are  very 
few  people  to  whom  the  word  really  applies — noble- 
minded.  I  have  never  known  her  to  believe  even 
the  most  obvious  evil  of  any  one.  Yet — strong?  I 
scarcely  know.  Perhaps  I  should  have  said  strong 
to  endure.  It  was  never  a  strength  of  aggression. 

"  She  grew  up  clipped  into  conventional  shape  by 
a  mother  and  governess  who  were  even  more  afraid 
of  *  queerness '  than  they  were  of  undesirable 
friends.  If  you  have  fine  enough  material  you  can 
twist  it  into  almost  any  shape,  and  Catherine  at 
twenty  must  have  been  as  good  a  semblance  of  your 
sensible,  narrow-interested,  pleasure-loving  girl  as 
heart  could  wish — or  break  over.  All  the  wild  white 
dreams  had  been  laughed  down  and  scolded  under 
and  hushed  out  of  sight.  Catherine  was  the  kind 
of  girl  your  own  people  hold  up  to  you  as  an 
example. 

"  If  she  had  been  the  ordinary  romantic,  senti 
mental  dreamer  it  would  have  made  no  difference. 
She  would  have  enjoyed  not  being  understood,  and 
married  somebody  on  the  strength  of  it,  and  every 
thing  would  have  been  all  right.  But  she  was  great- 
minded,  which  means  humble-minded,  and  when 
they  told  her  that  to  be  unusual  was  to  be  wrong 
she  believed  it.  The  little  people  around  her  said 


BLACK  MAGIC  105 

she  was  silly.  They  were  older  than  she,  so  of 
course  they  knew,  she  thought;  and  she  crowded 
under  all  the  wild,  innocent,  noble  wishes  and  desires 
and  struggles  and  beliefs  that  go  to  the  making  of 
heroines,  and  hid  her  Shelley  and  Kant  away,  and 
dutifully  read  young-girl  books  that  bored  her 
piteously.  At  twenty  one  will  do  almost  anything 
not  to  be  different.  Of  course  all  the  realities  in  her 
were  burning  hard,  ready  to  break  through  at  a 
touch. 

"  Well,  the  touch  came — through  a  perfectly 
proper,  meritorious  church-work  errand.  The 
Girls'  Friendly,  or  some  such  thing,  sent  Catherine 
to  visit,  among  others,  a  girl  named  Mira  Doremus. 
Mira  was  sixteen  then,  and  she  and  her  aunt  had 
just  come  to  the  Park — flotsam,  like  the  rest.  She 
is  a  great  actress  now,  Mira,  married  to  a  foreigner 
with  a  title,  her  second  husband,  I  think :  but  then 
she  was  merely  a  thin,  wistful-looking  child  with 
hungry  black  eyes  and  a  mop  of  incongruous  light- 
brown  hair.  Nine  years  afterward  Catherine  told 
me  about  their  first  meeting,  dwelling  on  the  little 
details  as  a  mother  dwells  on  the  things  a  dead 
child  has  done. 

" '  She  was  sitting  quite  alone  in  a  high  green 
chair  in  the  very  middle  of  the  room,  like  a  little 


io6  BLACK  MAGIC 

princess,'  she  said.  '  She  rose  and  took  both  my 
hands,  and  said  in  that  wonderful  voice  of  hers, 
"  So  you  are  the  Catherine  they  said  I  should  love ! 
I  think  they  were  right." 

"  I  don't  know  what  Catherine  answered.  I  don't 
believe  she  knows.  But  Catherine  had  met 
Romance. 

"Of  all  Mira's  gifts  the  most  subtle  and  wonder 
ful  is  her  capability  of  making  you  feel  that  to  you, 
and  you  alone,  she  is  most  attuned.  And  you  know 
that  Catherine  had  never  found  any  one  like  herself 
in  all  of  her  life  before.  Can  you  imagine  the 
stifling  loneliness  of  it?  And  can  you  think  what 
Mira  seemed  to  Catherine  ?  All  the  things  they  had 
told  her  were  foolish,  the  things  that  were  every 
thing  to  her,  Mira  divined  and  echoed  and  made 
great.  All  the  questionings  and  breaking  of  con 
ventional  idea  and  belief  that  Catherine  had 
dreamed  and  wondered  over  secretly,  Mira  played 
with  unafraid.  And  Mira,  wrapped  in  that  subtle 
quality,  magnetism,  charm,  personality — call  it  what 
you  will — exerted  every  scrap  of  power  in  her  to 
hold  Catherine.  She  loved  her  genuinely  for  a 
while.  She's  still  fond  of  her  in  a  way,  I  think. 
Catherine  is  a  very  lovable  person.  She  was  even 
more  lovable  then,  according  to  Mira.  '  A  Gabriel 


BLACK  MAGIC  107 

Max  Madonna  with  a  touch  of  Brunhild,'  is  Mira's 
description  of  what  Catherine  was  at  twenty.  Mira 
always  speaks  in  hyperbole — she  sees  things  that 
way.  Life  is  all  Turner  sunsets  and  Ibsen  dramas 
to  her.  But  Catherine  at  twenty  must  have  been 
very  lovely,  for  she  is  sweet-faced  now.  She  had 
the  coloring  of  apple-blossoms,  Mira  told  me,  and 
her  fair  hair  was  so  heavy  that  it  massed  naturally 
around  her  face,  like  a  halo.  The  '  touch  of  Brun 
hild,'  the  height  and  straightness,  the  boyish,  aus 
tere  impatience  of  shams  and  sentimentalisms  and 
pettinesses — she  has  them  still. 

"  Some  people  cannot  give  all  of  themselves  to 
any  one,  even  if  they  want  to.  Catherine  has  never 
been  able  to  give  except  entirely.  Such  people  as  she 
always  do  throw  down  everything  at  once.  They 
would  be  glad  if  their  love  were  returned,  but  if  it 
isn't — why,  that  doesn't  stop  them  from  giving. 
Mira,  with  her  wonderful  gift  of  feigned  likeness 
of  soul,  drew  out  of  Catherine,  or  was  freely  given, 
everything.  Then  she  began  to  hurt  Catherine  as 
much  as  she  could,  to  see  how  much  power  she  had, 
and  just  how  far  Catherine  would  bear.  I  suppose 
power  was  a  new  plaything  for  her  in  those  days, 
and  she  wanted  to  see  what  she  could  make  it 
do. 


io8  BLACK  MAGIC 

"  She  did  everything  to  Catherine's  soul  that  an 
ingenious  mind,  interested  in  proving  its  own  power, 
could  suggest.  You  know  how  people  can  hurt  you 
when  they  know  everything  about  you,  and  your 
least,  most  noble  (which  can  be  made  most  ridicu 
lous)  inward  feelings.  They  have  what  Holmes 
calls  the  '  back-door  key  '  to  your  soul,  and  they  can 
enter  at  will.  The  better  you  are,  the  larger- 
minded,  the  more  forgiving,  the  happier  hunting- 
ground  there  is  for  people  with  a  fondness  for  soul- 
vivisection.  Mira  knew  that  whatever  she  did  to 
Catherine's  feelings,  for  very  loyalty's  sake  Cath 
erine  would  pretend  not  to  be  hurt. 

"  It  may  have  been  good  for  Catherine,  in  a  way. 
I  know  that  she  thinks  it  was.  Mira  boasted  to  me 
once  that  she  had  '  developed  and  strengthened  the 
range  of  Catherine's  emotions.'  Doubtless  she  told 
the  truth.  She  did  make  out  of  her  a  most  wonder 
ful  instrument  for  the  registering  of  fine  shades  of 
feeling.  Like  her  predecessors  in  the  molding  of 
Catherine,  she  had  fine  material  to  work  in.  She 
had  Catherine's  nerves  trained  at  one  time  to  the 
thrilling,  fine  responsiveness  of  violin-strings,  and — • 
Mira  played  the  violin.  No  one  took  what  went  on 
with  any  particular  amount  of  seriousness.  They 
were  both  so  young,  you  see.  By  the  time  any  one 


BLACK  MAGIC  109 

noticed,  and  it  took  some  years,  it  was  too  late  to 
do  anything. 

"  So  when  I  knew  the  girls,  Catherine  was 
beyond  the  most  acute  suffering-point,  or  was 
trained  to  a  very  wonderful  stoicism.  I  think  my 
self  that  the  vibrations  were  deadened,  spoiled  by 
overuse.  You  can't  suffer,  even  at  the  hands  you 
love  best,  beyond  a  certain  point. 

"  It  was  at  Mira's  I  met  Catherine  again  for  the 
first  time  since  those  visits  of  state  in  our  child 
hood.  I  remembered  her,  of  course,  but  I  scarcely 
noticed  her  at  first,  I  was  so  under  the  spell  of 
Mira's  slow,  thrilling  voice  and  passionate  person 
ality.  Gradually  she  became  a  real  figure  to  me,  the 
smiling  blonde  girl  who  was  always  in  the  back 
ground,  smoothing  down  the  sharp  things  Mira  said 
and  showing  off  the  flattering  ones.  Something, 
finally,  in  her  attitude,  a  certain  determined  light 
ness  of  manner  at  variance  with  a  natural  placidity 
and  dignity,  attracted  my  attention  sharply.  Any 
where  else  I  would  have  seen  nothing  incongruous, 
but  at  Mira's  one  was  in  a  state  of  heightened 
mental  tension  which  took  note  of  morbidly  small 
things — a  sort  of  clairvoyance.  Mira's  atmosphere 
— well,  some  one  described  her  once  as  a  '  mental 
cocktail,'  and  it  wasn't  bad.  You  would  spend  a 


no  BLACK  MAGIC 

tense  evening  talking  to  her,  and  go  home  with  mind 
and  body  keyed  to  the  height  of  their  powers,  as 
if  you'd  been  taking  a  drug.  Indeed,  the  next  day 
you  would  be  quite  as  exhausted  as  if  the  drug  had 
been  a  physical  reality. 

"  The  first  time  I  saw  anything  real  of  Catherine 
was  a  night  when  Mira  kept  me  too  long  for  me 
to  be  able  to  get  home.  Catherine  volunteered  to 
put  me  up  for  the  night  All  the  way  back  to  her 
house  and  for  hours  afterwards,  we  talked  of  Mira, 
how  wonderful  she  was,  what  a  living  force 

"  '  But  she's — cruel,  isn't  she  ?  '  I  asked  timidly. 
I  was  young,  and  not  quite  sure,  as  yet,  how  much 
one  might  speak  of  emotions.  But  I  had  to — emo 
tions  were  what  Mira  exhaled.  She  played  on  your 
nerves,  and  deliberately  woke  for  her  own  interest 
all  those  elemental  feelings  you  had  supposed  were 
only  in  book  people — not  you. 

"'Cruel?'  said  Catherine  with  her  little  laugh. 
'  Yes,  I  suppose  so,  but  don't  you  think  she's  worth 
it  ?  She  can  give  you — thrills.  Thrills  are  all  that's 
worth  having — don't  you  think  so  ?  ' 

"  This  was  what  Mira  had  done  to  her  in  four 
years. 

"  We  went  on  talking — talked  late  into  the  night. 
Both  our  tongues  were  loosened  by  the  strong  stimu- 


BLACK  MAGIC  in 

lant  of  Mira's  personality.  Catherine  showed  me, 
little  by  little,  all  the  soul  of  her :  the  amazing  loy 
alty,  the  honesty  and  innocence  of  purpose,  the 
thwarted  instincts  of  protection  and  motherhood — 
and  the  cruel  havoc,  too,  that  Mira  had  wrought. 
Mira  had  made  Catherine  so  that  her  chief  desire 

was  for  emotional  excitement — '  thrills  ' She 

had  taught  her  to  analyze  herself  as  she  analyzed 
others,  and  to  find  her  greatest  interest  in  people's 
feelings.  It  sounds  overstrained,  I  know,  but  it 
reminded  me  of  the  superstition  that  if  a  vampire 
sucks  your  blood  something  of  the  vampire  nature 
is  left  in  you.  Mira  had  laid  Catherine's  soul  out 
and  dissected  it  till  the  girl  herself  learned  to  take 
an  interest  in  the  process.  Mira  could  not  kill  the 
gentleness,  nor  the  instinct  of  motherhood,  the  guar 
dianship  of  anything  weak  or  hurt,  nevertheless, 
she  had  taught  Catherine  something  which  was 
a  passionate,  selfless  sympathy,  but  which  still 
watched  your  soul  hungrily  for  signs  of  its  work 
ings — even  while  she  helped  it  through  some  black, 
terrifying  place. 

"  She  was  trained,  too,  to  a  curious  scorn  of  men. 
Mira  had  the  Brunhild  austerity  of  her  to  work  on 
in  the  beginning,  of  course.  The  love  and  protec- 
tiveness  that  goes  with  the  type  Mira  diverted  to 


H2  BLACK  MAGIC 

herself;  the  mating  instinct,  of  no  use  to  her,  she 
tried  to  crush  out.  Mira's  own  attitude  to  men,  at 
that  stage  of  her  development,  was  inevitable.  She 
did  not  attract  them,  then;  she  alarmed  them  by 
oddness ;  so  she  hated  them,  and  trained  her  devotees 
to  hate  them  too.  It  was  a  self-defensive,  automatic 
thing.  You  couldn't  like  a  man  and  Mira  at  the 
same  time.  So  Catherine  crystallized  Mira's  mood 
of  the  time,  and  despised  men  with  her  whole  inno 
cent,  serious  mind. 

"The  more  you  knew  of  Catherine  the  lovelier 
she  was.  Long  after  I  had  seen  all  that  was  neces 
sary  to  conviction  of  Mira's  temperamentalisms, 
Catherine  and  I  were  very  close  to  each  other. 
Mira's  schooling  had  made  her  the  ideal  friend;  I 
suppose  she  knew  what  not  to  do  to  the  last  iota. 
But  she  never  spoke  of  herself,  only  of  yourself — r 
and  Mira — things  you  were  interested  in — and  Mira 
— music  and  books  .and  pictures — and  Mira.  She 
talked  wonderfully,  wisely,  with  a  tolerant  sympathy 
and  interest  for  everything,  but  Mira  was  the  con 
tinuous  overtone  of  it  all.  I  don't  mean  that  she 
spoke  of  her  so  much.  It  was,  as  well  as  I  can 
describe  it,  that  Mira  was  in  the  air  when  you  were 
with  Catherine,  affecting  your  senses  as  vividly  as 
the  faint  wood-violet  scent  Catherine  always  had  on. 


BLACK  MAGIC  113 

She  was  a  part  of  Catherine's  life  in  the  literal  sense 
of  the  phrase. 

"  Once  Catherine  tried  to  break  the  spell.  It  was 
after  a  very  cruel  scene  with  Mira,  who  was  angry 
with  some  one  else.  She  wasn't  sufficiently  sure  of 
the  other  girl  to  act  to  her  as  she  felt.  So  she  sum 
moned  Catherine,  late  at  night,  and  spent  four  solid 
hours  wilfully  wounding  and  insulting  and  humili 
ating  her  by  every  means  in  her  knowledge,  all  in 
that  wonderful,  'cello-like  voice  that  Catherine  loved 
so  dearly.  Catherine  sat  under  it  all  silently.  In 
the  end  she  rose,  dazed,  and — if  you  can  believe  it — 
not  resentful  in  the  least;  only  hurt,  hurt,  hurt  so 
badly  that  it  was  worse,  she  told  me,  than  any  physi 
cal  pain  she  had  ever  known. 

"  *  I  don't  think  we  had  better  see  each  other  any 
more,'  she  managed  to  say  in  a  low  voice,  rising  to 
go  away.  Mira  darted  after  her  and  caught  her 
wrist  hard. 

"  *  You'll  be  the  first  to  crawl  back,'  she  said.  '  I 
may  take  you  if  you  are  very  abject!  Now,  go!' 

"Catherine  went  home  physically  ill.  It  was  a 
week  before  she  ate  or  slept  normally.  After  that 
she  held  no  communication  with  Mira  for  a  month. 
She  sent  back  all  her  letters,  and  her  maid  answered 
the  telephone  and  refused  her  to  Mira  about  once  a 


114  BLACK  MAGIC 

day.  Catherine  used  to  lie  on  her  couch,  she  said, 
gripping  its  sides  with  both  hands  to  keep  from 
rising  and  taking  the  receiver  herself  and  replying. 
But  finally  she  fought  herself  to  a  point  where  she 
could  think  of  Mira  quietly,  and  with  no  desire  to 
see  her.  If  her  mother  had  been  willing  to  have  her 
go  away  for  a  while  just  then  I  think  she  could  have 
got  free  enough  to  hold  firm,  for  Mira's  spell  is  a 
personal  one  to  a  great  degree,  weaker  the  farther 
away  she  is.  But  for  some  reason  it  was  not  con 
venient,  and  Catherine's  mother  would  not  let  her 
go.  Fascination  and  the  power  of  personality  were 
as  ridiculous  to  the  mother  as  a  belief  in  ghosts. 
If  Catherine's  loyalty  had  permitted  her  to  tell  her 
mother  some  of  the  things  Mira  had  said  to  her 
Mira  would  never  have  been  allowed  in  the  house 
again,  I  know.  Unfortunately,  those  were  just 
what  Catherine  would  not  tell. 

"  The  end  of  it  was  that  Mira  slipped  into  the 
house  unchallenged  one  day,  gained  Catherine's  sit 
ting-room,  and  fled  across  the  room  into  her  arms. 

"  *  Oh,  comfort  me,  comfort  me ! '  she  sobbed. 
'  I've  been  so  wicked  and  cruel  to  you  that  I  can 
never  be  happy  any  more ! ' 

"  Catherine,  worn  and  blanched  as  she  was  with 
the  struggle  Mira  had  caused,  sat  up  and  closed  both 


BLACK  MAGIC  115 

weak,  protecting  arms  around  Mira  and — comforted 
her.  The  fetters  were  locked  on  again. 

"  All  this  was  a  long  time  before  Catherine  met 
Quincy.  She  was  thirty  when  he  came.  Mira 
was  away.  It  was  at  my  house  they  met. 

"  Catherine  is  not  the  kind  that  has  many  lovers. 
Even  if  she  wanted  them,  she  demands  a  very  great 
deal,  and  stoops  to  none  of  the  little  alluringnesses 
men  desire.  Any  lover  of  Catherine's  would  have 
to  go  all  the  way  alone  without  help  from  her.  But 
Quincy  was  ready  and  glad  to  go  every  inch  of  the 
way.  He  loved  her  as  soon  as  he  saw  her.  He  did 
not,  or  I  think  not,  see  all  the  high,  brave  soul  of 
her,  under  the  sweetness  and  straightforwardness 
that  were  her  most  visible  charm.  But  what  man 
ever  does  love  a  woman  for  the  things  in  her  that 
are  most  loveworthy?  Quincy  cared  for  her  so  en 
tirely  that  whatever  she  did  or  was  or  said  was 
perfect  because  she  did  it,  and  would  have  been — 
will  be — to  the  end  of  time.  He  was  a  man  any 
girl  would  have  been  glad  to  marry,  aside  from  the 
worldly  part  of  it,  for  his  sheer  sweetness  and 
straightforward,  gay  strength  and  charm.  Any 
girl,  that  is,  not  blinded  and  drowned  in  Mira's 
ruthless  fascination. 

"  Quincy  laid  siege  to  Catherine  as  steadily  and 


ii6  BLACK  MAGIC 

swiftly  as  if  he  had  been  one  of  the  knights  she  used 
to  dream  about.  Soon  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  won. 
I  was  very,  very  glad,  but  a  little  frightened.  It 
seemed  too  good  to  be  true — too  happy  an  ending 
for  any  one  as  strong  to  bear  suffering  as  Catherine. 
They  were  so  youthfully,  carelessly  happy — I  never 
remember  being  as  light-hearted  as  they  were.  It 
was  the  most  beautiful  thing  to  see  them  going  about 
together,  Catherine  flushed  and  serious  and  girlish, 
and  Quincy  watching  her  in  the  unmistakable  lover- 
fashion.  It  was  so  new  to  Catherine  to  be  petted, 
and  have  her  feelings  considered  and  her  wishes 
watched  for,  that  she  must  have  felt  bewildered. 
She  bought  pretty,  fluffy  clothes  and  did  her  hair 
to  please  Quincy,  and  for  one  month  she  was  a  real, 
normal  woman  with  a  lover,  and  all  the  little  vani 
ties  and  foolishnesses  and  merriments  that  go  to 
lover-time.  She  had  been  living  so  long  on  heights 
of  strained  emotion  that  this  descent  into  the  valleys 
must  have  been  very  wonderful  to  her.  If  any  two 
people  ever  were  brave  and  kind  and  merry,  and 
absolutely  fitted  to  make  each  other's  happiness  for 
a  lifetime,  those  two  were. 

"  Ethan  and  I  met  them  one  night  in  the  lobby  of 
a  theater,  in  the  city,  after  a  musical  comedy,  talking- 
nonsense  to  each  other  like  a  couple  of  children. 


BLACK  MAGIC  117 

"  '  She  looks  like  a  Christmas-card  angel,  doesn't 
she  ? '  Quincy  said  fondly,  looking  down  at  her  mis 
chievously.  I  looked  too,  and  smiled.  She  did  in 
deed,  tall  and  straight,  and  pink-cheeked  with  ex 
citement,  with  her  pretty  fair  hair  all  curled,  and 
her  blue  eyes  laughing  and  childlike  above  the 
swansdown  of  her  long  white  cape. 

" '  I'm  not  an  angel,  at  all! '  she  protested, 
laughing  and  glancing  up  at  him  challenge-fashion. 
He  bent  and  whispered  something  that  made  her 
flush  and  drop  her  eyes. 

"  It  was  all  such  a  poignant  contrast  to  my  first 
memory  of  Catherine,  smiling  and  enduring  behind 
Mira's  chair  in  that  little  room  full  of  tense  emotion, 
that  something  came  over  me — a  wave  of  second- 
sight,  I've  thought  since. 

"  '  Oh,  Quincy,  dear ! '  I  said,  '  I  do  wish  you'd 
marry  her  soon — tonight — this  week !  Marry  each 
other  quick,  before  anything  happens  to  stop  either 
of  you  from  being  happy ! ' 

"  '  It  would  be  an  adventure,  at  least ! '  laughed 
Quincy.  'What  do  you  say,  Kitty — shall  we  take 
her  and  Ethan  for  witnesses,  and  go  off  and  do  as 
she  says  ? ' 

"  He  loved  her  as  much  as  a  man  can,  but  I  don't 
think  he  knew  what  he  had  achieved  in  winning  her 


ii8  BLACK  MAGIC 

through  the  crystallized  distaste  for  men  that  Mira 
had  taught  her.  He  was  just  as  sure  of  her,  natu 
rally,  as  he  was  of  sunrise. 

"  '  Oh,  no,  no ! '  said  Catherine  gaily.  '  What 
would  happen  to  our  lovely  wedding  and  all  the  blue 
bridesmaids?  We  have  all  the  rest  of  our  lives  to 
stay  happy  in.' 

"  *  If  Mira  lets  you/  I  said  involuntarily. 

"  The  girl-look  faded  for  a  moment,  and  the  old 
expression  of  devoted  endurance  crossed  her  face, 
followed  by  her  little  old  Mira-laugh — not  the 
childish  mirth  of  girls  with  lovers. 

" '  You  always  think  Mira  is  so  dreadful/  she 
said.  '  She'll  like  Quincy  almost  as  much  as  I  do.' 

"  But  it  was  only  three  days  afterwards  that  Mira 
came  back  and  the  thing  I  had  feared  happened.  I 
never  knew  much  more  than  the  brutal  fact  that 
Catherine  broke  off  short  with  Quincy.  Mira 
needed  her  to  sit  behind  her  chair,  with  the  old  look 
of  pleasant,  patient  watchfulness  on  her  face,  I 
suppose.  At  any  rate,  there  were  two  evenings 
alone  with  Mira — and  Catherine  was  back  under  the 
spell.  Cocaine  or  opium  would  have  been  as  easy 
a  thing  to  fight. 

"  It  was  a  long  while  since  I  had  been  near  Mira, 
but  I  went  straight  down  to  the  Park  to  see  her  then. 


BLACK  MAGIC  119 

" '  How  could  you  dare  do  what  you  did  to 
Catherine?  Do  you  know  that  you've  spoiled  her 
life  and  maybe  Quincy's  ?  '  I  cried  out  as  she  ran 
into  the  room,  childish  and  vibrant  and  seductive  as 
ever. 

"  '  Dare? '  laughed  Mira,  lighting  on  a  corner  of 
the  table  like  a  butterfly.  She  always  seemed  poised 
for  the  moment,  rather  than  seated  like  other  people. 
'  Don't  be  melodramatic,  you  foolish  child !  I 
haven't  done  anything  to  Catherine — the  thing's 
ridiculous.  Catherine  doesn't  really  care  for  the 
man  at  all.  She  doesn't  like  men  any  more  than  I 
do.  She  was  just  amusing  herself  with  him,  I  sup 
pose.  He's  ridiculous,  too — forgive  me,  dearest! 
And  Catherine's  a  free  agent — you  know  that  per 
fectly  well.  You  always  talk  as  if  I  had  her  in  my 
power,  like  a  melodrama ! ' 

"  It  does  seem  impossible  and  melodramatic,  one 
woman's  complete  power  over  another  by  sheer  per 
sonal  influence,  and  Mira  knew  it  and  acted  on  it  in 
all  her  dealings  with  her  satellites.  She  laughed  at 
me,  and  then  grew  angry,  and  denied  and  mocked 
and  laughed  again — went  through  her  series  of 
moods  artistically,  and  enjoyed  herself  very  much. 
She  knew  there  was  nothing  I  could  do,  and  I  knew 
it,  too. 


120  BLACK  MAGIC 

"  Quincy  fought  hard,  of  course,  but  what  could 
any  man  do  against  Mira's  powers  of  darkness? 
Mira  had  mocked  a  little  and  appealed  a  little  and 
cajoled  a  little — and  the  thing  was  done.  Moreover, 
Catherine  denied  in  all  sincerity  that  Mira  had  any 
connection  with  what  she  had  done.  She  was  mis 
taken,  she  said — it  was  not  right  for  her  to  marry — 
there  were  other  things  to  do  in  the  world — that 
was  all.  It  would  have  been  the  same,  she  said  and 
believed,  if  Mira  had  never  existed. 

"  Quincy  went  away,  at  last,  out  of  the  country. 
He  made  me  promise  before  he  went  that  I  would 
send  him  word  if  ever  Catherine  expressed  the  least 
desire  to  see  him.  He  is  away  still.  I  wish  it  hadn't 
been  Quincy,  of  all  people.  Most  men  wouldn't 
have  kept  on  caring.  I  never  thought  Quincy 
would;  he  was  so  light-hearted,  and  there  were  so 
many  girls  in  his  life.  I'm  afraid  that  senseless  loy 
alty  is  a  Ferrier  inheritance — or,  rather,  Ainslie. 
Poor  Aunt  Lucina  clung  to  Uncle  Edward  years 
after  any  other  woman  would  have  taken  her  chil 
dren  and  gone  away.  They  can't  seem  to  deflect, 
once  they  really  care.  Like  those  poor  souls  in  the 
poem  who  found  the  wrong  island  and  colonized  it, 
and  had  to  stick  to  it,  you  know. 

"  Well,  Catherine  sat  behind  Mira's  chair  for  two 


BLACK  MAGIC  121 

years  more,  smiling  and  comforting  the  girls  when 
Mira  hurt  them  too  much.  Then  suddenly  the  natu 
ral,  inevitable  thing — the  thing  that  none  of  us  had 
ever  thought  of — happened.  Catherine  called  me 
hurriedly  over  the  telephone  one  morning. 

"  '  Mira's  going  to  be  married,'  she  said  breath 
lessly  without  preface.  '  Married.  And  .  .  .  she 
always  said  marriage  was  dreadful  and  degrading. 
...  I  thought  she  didn't  like  men.  .  .  .  Isn't 
it — queer? ' 

"  Mira  had  taken  Catherine  from  her  lover.  She 
had  taken  her  from  most  of  her  friends.  She  had 
taken  her  youth,  and  deadened  her  capacity  for  the 
enjoyment  of  normal  people  and  normal  things. 
She  had  even  taken  her  away  from  her  God — that 
kind,  concrete  God,  half  Keats,  half  clergyman, 
whom  Catherine  used  to  go  to  for  comfort  when 
Mira  hurt  her  first.  She  had  put  herself,  Queen 
Mira,  instead  of  all  these.  And  now  she  was  taking 
herself  away. 

"  Catherine's  voice  was  steady,  and  she  told  the 
story  almost  brightly.  Oh,  she  had  learned  stoicism 
well!  'Isn't  it— queer?'  That  was  all. 

'  But  she  doesn't  love  him  at  all,'  she  went  on. 
I  could  see  that  there  was  a  happiness  to  her  in  that 
last,  forlorn  comfort.  '  She  is  only  marrying  him 


122  BLACK  MAGIC 

because  he  is  rich  and  can  put  her  on  the  stage — you 
know  Mira  will  make  a  wonderful  actress.  He  is 
mad  about  her — you  should  see  him ! ' 

"  She  was  always  so  proud  when  any  one  was 
mad  about  Mira. 

"  There  isn't  very  much  more  to  it.  Catherine 
was  maid  of  honor  at  the  wedding.  It  was  a  very 
beautiful  wedding,  and  the  man  was  undoubtedly 
mad  about  Mira,  and  she,  in  spite  of  her  assurances 
to  Catherine,  was  undoubtedly  mad  about  him  for 
the  time.  When  they  went  away  there  was  on  his 
face,  it  seemed  to  me,  Catherine's  very  set,  bright 
smile,  the  mark  Mira  lays  on  her  chief  worshiper. 

"  Nobody  wanted  Catherine  any  more,  but  it  was 
too  late  for  her  to  swing  to  normal  again.  The  last 
breath  of  her  girlhood  had  died  when  she  gave  up 
Quincy.  She  is — what  is  it  they  say  of  steel  that 
has  been  permanently  warped  by  electricity  ?  '  De 
polarized  '  is  the  word,  I  think.  Anyway,  it  de 
scribes  what  has  happened  to  Catherine.  There  is 
the  same  set  brightness  about  her  that  there  was 
in  Mira's  day.  She  devotes  a  great  deal  of  time  to 
her  mother,  who  likes  being  waited  on.  For  in 
terests,  she  amuses  herself  with  little  passing  adora 
tions  of  first  one  woman  and  then  another.  She 
laughs  at  anything  you  say  about  loving  men  or 


BLACK  MAGIC  123 

children.  But  then  she  laughs  a  little  at  everything. 
So  did  Hugo's  Gwynplaine,  you  remember. 

"  I  don't  mind,"  said  Naomi  passionately,  "  what 
women  do  to  men.  It's  a  fair  game,  as  old  as  Eve, 
and  the  balance  has  always  been  on  men's  side.  But 
to  take  a  great  white  soul  like  Catherine's  and  set  it 
to  playing  pitiful  little  games  in  the  dust  with  little 
souls  not  worth  tuppence 

"If  it  was  Catherine's  mind  she'd  hurt — but 
that's  a  clear,  strong,  straightforward  thing,  as  it 
always  was,  and  I've  always  understood  that  in  any 
life  hereafter  your  mind  doesn't  count  much.  It 
was  the  straightstanding,  sweet  soul  of  her,  that 
might  have  been  so  great,  that  is  crippled. 

"  She  has  one  pitiful  comfort  left,  I  know.  I 
don't  often  see  her  now,  but  one  afternoon  we  met 
by  accident,  and  fell  to  talking  what  Catherine  calls 
'  insanities  '  in  the  old  way.  The  talk  swung  round 
to  reincarnation,  and  she  said  breathlessly  and 
strongly,  '  Oh,  but  it's  so— it  must  be  so ! ' 

"  I  smiled. 

" '  One  likes  to  play  with  the  idea,'  I  said,  '  but, 
dear,  you  don't  mean  that  you  really  hold  to  the 
belief,  as  your  mother  does  to  predestination  ?  ' 

"  '  I  have  to,'  she  said.  Then  she  caught  herself 
up,  and  laughed  a  little  in  the  old  way,  to  make  her 


124  BLACK  MAGIC 

words  seem  light.  '  Mira  and  I  have  an  appoint 
ment  under  the  walls  of  Babylon  in  a  thousand 
years,  you  know — just  we  two! ' 

"  She  laughed  again,  but  I  didn't  dare  to.  I  was 
afraid  I  would  cry.  .  .  .  Mira  has  been  in 
Europe  a  year  now,  and  I  don't  think  she  writes 
to  Catherine.  I  shall  keep  my  promise  and  write 
Quincy  tomorrow.  I  don't  know  that  it  will  do 
much  good — if  there's  enough  of  the  Catherine 
he  knew  left  to  make  it  worth  his  while  marrying. 
But  a  promise  is  a  promise." 


THE  CONGREGATION 

THERE  is  an  animal  well  known  to  the  wives  and' 
daughters  of  clergymen,  though  not  listed  in  the 
Natural  History  books.  It  is  rather  a  Scriptural- 
sounding  beast,  as  is  appropriate.  It  has  at  least 
from  seventy-five  to  five  hundred  heads,  and — if 
you  will  pardon  the  pun — much  more  than  that 
number  of  tales.  It  is  not  highly  intelligent,  though 
sometimes  it  displays  strong  affection  for  its 
keeper.  It  is  very  powerful,  unfortunately,  for 
those  who  know  most  about  it  say  that  it  cannot 
be  depended  on,  any  more  than  other  semi-tame 
wild  animals.  It  is  called  The  Congregation. 

Ministers'  wives  speak  to  it  with  nervous  cor 
diality,  and  of  it,  among  themselves,  with  a  certain 
terrified  mockery.  They  also  have  several  proverbs 
about  it,  which  they  communicate  only  to  each 
other. 

The  ministers  themselves,  like  all  actual  keepers, 
don't  see  it  that  way.  They  feel — of  course  this  is 
only  in  the  smaller  places,  where  pastor  and  Con 
gregation  deal  with  each  other  still  by  hand — what 
any  good  keeper  feels:  ownership,  pride,  affection, 

125 


126  THE  CONGREGATION 

and  a  perfect  confidence  that  their  Congregation  will 
never  bite  them. 

At  least,  to  the  Reverend  Charles  Ainslie,  sitting 
happily  one  night  in  his  study,  the  idea  of  a  biting 
Congregation  had  never  occurred.  It  was  the 
largest,  most  luxurious  study  he  had  ever  owned, 
for  he  had  designed  it  himself  in  a  wing  of  the 
pretty  new  church  that  was  the  work  of  his  own 
hands  and  of  his  boyish,  magnetic  personality. 

"  Build  a  church  or  marry  a  wife — and  go,"  is 
one  of  the  proverbs  that  the  smiling,  anxious-eyed 
clergymen's  womenfolk  quote  to  each  other.  But 
the  church  was  six  active  months  old  now,  and  the 
Congregation  still  thought  their  minister  the  most 
wonderful  man  that  ever  lived. 

Mr.  Ainslie  thought  that  it  was  God,  not  himself, 
that  his  Congregation  worshiped;  for,  like  many 
another  man  with  strongly  winning  powers,  he 
knew  very  little  about  his  own  or  other  people's 
motives.  He  was  a  man  of  about  forty-five,  hand 
some,  strongly-built,  and  vivid  enough  to  dominate 
the  shabby  clothes  he  wore.  A  passion  for  books  in 
subscription  sets,  and  a  stronger  one  for  financing 
derelicts,  prevented  him  from  spending  much  on 
dress. 

It  was  the  night  Mr.  Ainslie  set  apart  for  talking 


THE  CONGREGATION  127 

to  those  of  his  Congregation  who  were  in  trouble 
and  needed  help.  Tonight,  however,  was  too  cold 
for  the  Congregational  drunkard — a  most  charming 
and  cultivated  person — to  come  over  for  a  loan,  or 
for  the  most  conscience-stricken  old  lady  to  venture 
out  in  quest  of  the  Unpardonable  Sin  and  a  cheering 
chat  about  herself.  So  Mr.  Ainslie  had  what  was  a 
rare  thing,  a  little  time  to  himself.  He  let  his  little 
Greek  Testament  slip  to  his  knee,  and  began  to  think 
how  well  his  life  was  going  and  how  kind  it  was  of 
God  to  let  it  go  so  well. 

"We  are  all  well  and  happy,"  he  thought.  "I 
have  enough  salary  now  to  manage  without  getting 
into  debt.  And,  best  of  all,  the  Congregation — my 
own  dear  people !  I  think  they  love  me  as  much  as 
I  do  them." 

His  dark,  handsome  eyes  rested  on  a  painted  text 
over  the  door — it  was  the  one  about  the  righteous 
never  being  forsaken — and  his  face  lighted  up  with 
a  passionate  religious  fervor  which  was  as  real  a 
part  of  his  nature  as  his  gaiety  and  his  tenderness 
for  the  people  he  served. 

Just  then  somebody  knocked  at  the  study  door. 

The  little,  black-clad,  blonde  woman  who  entered 
breathed  nervously,  her  hand  a  little  obviously  over 
her  heart. 


128  THE  CONGREGATION 

"It's  only  me — Mrs.  Whitely,"  she  said;  and 
laughed  embarrassedly. 

She  fidgeted  into  a  chair  and  began  to  roll  into  a 
ball  and  then  unroll  the  gloves  she  had  jerked  off. 
For  a  minute  she  panted — she  did  not  speak. 

"  Isn't  there  something  I  can  do  ?  "  asked  the  min 
ister  pleasantly.  "  Is  your  little  daughter " 

Mrs.  Whitely  rolled  her  big,  delft-blue  eyes  rest 
lessly.  They  were  incongruous  eyes,  set  in  her  pale 
little  face. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Ainslie,"  she  burst  out  suddenly,  "  I'm 
in  such  trouble — such  trouble!  And  I  says  to  my 
self,  if  anybody  could  help  me  my  pastor  could.  So 
I  came,  though  it's  cold " 

She  broke  off  suddenly  and  began  to  fidget  again. 

"  Is  it  any  trouble  that  I  can  help?  "  the  minister 
asked  gently  again.  In  the  back  of  his  mind  he  was 
prepared  to  hear  a  long  tale  of  her  husband's  short 
comings.  Mrs.  Whitely  was  reputed  to  lead  Mr. 
Whitely  something  of  a  life.  The  lady  hunted  for 
her  handkerchief  and  began.  But  before  she  had 
gone  far  she  was  on  her  knees  beside  the  minister, 
clutching  him,  like  a  third  act.  The  trouble  with 
people  like  her  is  that  they  think  they  have  to  act, 
in  stress  of  emotion,  exactly  like  the  people  in  in 
ferior  plays  they  have  seen. 


THE  CONGREGATION  129 

Her  troubles,  it  appeared,  were  rather  hackneyed, 
too.  They  seemed  to  be,  principally,  that  the  min 
ister  was  married,  and  she  was  married,  and  she 
loved  him,  and  she  was  sure  he  would  love  her  if 
he  only  understood  her.  .  .  .  And  more — a  great 
deal  more. 

Mr.  Ainslie  did  what  was  the  natural  thing  for  a 
man  with  decent  principles  and  a  quick  temper  to  do. 
He  put  the  lady  outdoors  bodily — she  wouldn't  go 
any  other  way — and  as  he  was  in  a  hurry,  having 
lost  his  temper,  she  was  set  on  the  edge  of  a  snow 
drift. 

She  stood  still  where  she  had  been  dumped,  one 
foot  on  the  walk  and  the  other  in  a  snowdrift.  She 
was  mortified  and  angry  and  revengeful  and  hys 
terically  upset — in  short,  she  was  that  rather  worn- 
out  figure,  a  Woman  Scorned. 

"  I'll  pay  you  for  this !  "  she  half-snapped,  half- 
sobbed.  "  I'll  pay  you  if  I  have  to  smash  your  old 
church  to  do  it!  I'll  pay  ..." 

He  could  hear  her  scolding  shrilly  at  him  till 
she  reached  the  street,  where  she  composed  herself 
swiftly  and  stood  still  on  the  corner  till  her  street 
car  came. 

Mr.  Ainslie  held  himself  hard  for  a  few  minutes, 
till  he  was  not  angry.  Then  he  said  a  swift  prayer 


130  THE  CONGREGATION 

for  the  woman ;  for  he  talked  to  God  all  day  long, 
off  and  on,  very  much  as  you  speak  to  a  companion 
who  walks  beside  you.  Then  he  locked  up  his  study 
and  went  home,  around  the  corner. 

Mrs.  Whitely,  also  going  home,  in  the  car,  stared 
at  her  black  woolen  gloves  and  planned.  She  had 
to  plan  how  to  turn  her  parlor  carpet  around  so 
the  worn  part  wouldn't  show,  and  how  to  get  a  new 
hat  out  of  her  husband,  and  how  to  get  back  at  the 
minister.  It  was  quite  a  long  ride  home.  By  the 
time  she  had  her  latch-key  out  her  arrangements 
were  all  made. 

Mr.  Ainslie  said  nothing  to  his  wife  about  the 
episode.  She  worried  too  much  about  things,  and, 
anyway,  it  didn't  strike  him  as  an  important  enough 
occurrence  to  mention.  Mrs.  Whitely  was  not  the 
first  or  second  or  third  woman  who  had  gone 
through  the  performance.  It  is  a  part  of  the  routine 
for  most  doctors  and  clergymen — annoying,  but  to 
be  expected  in  the  day's  work. 

So  he  went  cheerfully  on  with  his  church  duties 
and  had  a  very  good  week,  for  he  lured  five  hundred 
dollars  for  the  church  debt  out  of  a  rich  old  man 
who  summered  near  by  and  liked  him.  He  was  also 
tricked  by  the  same  old  man  into  accepting  a  new 
suit  of  clothes.  He  was  vexed  about  this  at  the 


THE  CONGREGATION  131 

time,  but  it  turned  out  to  be  just  as  well,  after  all. 
He  forgot  all  about  Mrs.  Whitely.  Meanwhile  that 
lady  turned  her  carpet  satisfactorily,  induced  her 
husband  to  buy  her  a  new  hat  with  ostrich  tips, 
and  found  her  plans  generally  working  very  well 
indeed. 

Among  the  Congregation  was  a  family  named 
Christie.  They  were  not  of  the  elite  who  used 
almost  good  English  and  wore  very  good  clothes, 
neither  were  they  of  the  have-to-be-helped  poor. 
Mr.  Christie  was  a  rarely  seen,  lank,  grizzled 
plumber,  with  a  draggled  mustache  and  discouraged 
shoulders.  His  wife  was  little  and  faded  and  bird- 
like,  with  eyes  that  still  languished  at  men.  There 
were  three  daughters,  sixteen,  seventeen,  eighteen. 
The  seventeen-  and  eighteen-year-olds  were  caress 
ing,  red-lipped,  crudely  alluring,  and  married  swiftly 
before  they  were  out  of  short  dresses.  The  young 
est,  Hetty,  watched  life  from  under  her  eyelashes, 
and  wondered  when  she  would  be  married,  too. 
She  was  in  Mrs.  Whitely's  Sunday-school  class,  a 
slim,  sidelong-looking  girl  with  long-lashed  evasive 
eyes  and  scarlet  lips  and  a  muddy  skin.  She  wore 
her  hair  down  her  back  and  her  skirts  at  her  shoe- 
tops,  but  in  several  ways  she  was  all  grown-up.  She 


132  THE  CONGREGATION 

thought  mostly  about  love,  as  interpreted  by  the 
books  she  read,  which  had  names  like  "  Beautiful 
Junie's  Love-Test  "  and  "  Little  Rosebud's  Lovers." 
They  were  all  about  lovely  sixteen-year-olds  who 
loved  men  far  above  them,  and  secured  them  after 
every  one  who  objected  had  been  put  out  of  the 
way.  The  principal  difference  between  Hetty 
Christie  and  her  Beautiful  Junies  was  that  Hetty 
knew  a  lot  about  men.  What  her  mother  hadn't 
told  her  she  had  inherited. 

Hetty  cherished  a  very  romantic  and  passionate 
love  for  her  middle-aged  pastor,  and  her  Sunday- 
school  teacher  knew  all  about  it.  When  Mrs. 
Whitely  had  first  discovered  it  she  had  wanted  to 
kill  Hetty,  but  presently  she  decided  to  do  other 
wise.  Hetty  didn't  know  anything  about  that, 
naturally,  for  even  the  cleverest  sixteen-year-old 
can  hardly  see  through  a  much  older  and  cleverer 
woman  of  her  own  kind. 

"  The  pastor's  crazy  about  you,  Hetty,"  whispered 
her  Sunday-school  teacher.  "  Anybody  could  see 
it."  And  she  took  Hetty  home  with  her  Sunday 
afternoon  and  gave  her  certain  sound  advice. 

"  Oh,  but  I  wouldn't  dare  try  those  on  the  pastor," 
said  Hetty,  shivering.  "  Besides,  he's  so  good  it 
wouldn't  work." 


THE  CONGREGATION  133 

"A  man's  a  man,"  said  Mrs.  Whitely.  "You 
do  what  I  tell  you,  dearie,  and  don't  you  be  dis 
couraged.  And  act  as  kiddish  as  you  can." 

So  Hetty,  with  a  throbbing  heart,  came  and  of 
fered  to  help  make  a  catalogue  of  the  Sunday-school 
library.  The  Sunday-school  was  trying  to  pay  for 
a  stained-glass  window  on  the  each-member-raises- 
five-dollars  plan,  and  Hetty  wanted  to  make  hers 
by  means  of  the  catalogue.  She  thought  she  could 
if  the  minister  showed  her  a  little. 

"  I — I'd  like  to  do  it,"  she  said,  looking  sidelong 
at  the  minister  from  her  low  seat  in  his  study.  Her 
slim  ankles  were  crossed  under  her  short  skirt,  and 
she  played  nervously  with  the  brown  braid  she  had 
pulled  over  her  shoulder.  She  was  so  obviously 
excited  and  terrified  that  the  minister  laid  a  warm, 
encouraging  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Of  course,  you  may,  my  dear  child,"  he  said 
cheeringly. 

She  eyed  him  sidelong  again,  and  colored,  and 
giggled  nervously.  But  presently  she  was  quite  at 
ease,  pattering  around  the  place  like  a  kitten.  In  a 
day  or  so  the  minister  got  quite  used  to  her  pres 
ence,  and  even  enjoyed  hearing  her  low,  pretty 
voice  humming  snatches  of  street-songs  above  her 
books,  and  the  useless,  caressing  little  questions  and 


134  THE  CONGREGATION 

cheap  little  jokes  with  which  she  was  wont  to  inter 
rupt  him. 

After  a  while  there  began  to  be  other  things — a 
girlish  arm  slipped  into  his,  a  childish  hand  laid 
on  his  shoulder,  a  brown  braid  unplaiting  itself  by 
chance  as  Hetty  stooped  above  him  to  whisper  a 
foolish  question.  The  minister  found  it  pleasant 
enough,  though  it  didn't  suffice  to  tell  him  what 
Hetty  thought  it  did.  His  own  daughter  of  Hetty's 
age  was  a  tall,  shy  child  who  read  poetry-books  and 
was  innocently  sentimental  about  Mary  Queen  of 
Scots  and  Sir  Launcelot.  That  a  girl  no  older  than 
his  Naomi  could  fall  in  love  with  a  married  man, 
especially  with  her  pastor,  never  dawned  on 
him. 

Presently  Hetty  had  the  grippe,  because  her 
mother  couldn't  get  her  to  wear  flannels  under  her 
thin  waists.  She  cried  for  the  minister  to  come 
and  see  her,  and  they  sent  for  him.  She  lay  with 
her  hair  frizzled  and  spread  loose  over  her  pillow 
and  with  a  flower  in  her  hand  that  she  had  made  her 
mother  buy  for  her  to  hold.  It  seemed  to  the 
child  like  the  wildest  and  most  beautiful  romance 
when  the  minister  sat  down  beside  her  and  took  her 
hot  little  hand  in  his  and  said  kindly  that  he  had 
missed  her.  She  lay  in  a  trance  of  perfect  happi- 


THE  CONGREGATION  135 

ness  till  his  visit  was  over.  When  he  was  about 
to  go  she  reached  up  one  slim,  feverish  brown  arm 
and  pulled  his  face  down  to  hers.  The  minister  had 
been  pulled  down  to  kiss  another  child  that  day,  it 
happened,  a  boy  of  eleven  who  adored  him. 

Hetty  still  lay  in  a  daze  of  bliss  when  her  Sun 
day-school  teacher  dropped  in  a  couple  of  hours 
later. 

"  Oh,  he  kissed  me ! "  said  Hetty  in  a  hoarsely 
rapturous  whisper. 

Mrs.  Whitely  felt  another  impulse  to  kill  Hetty, 
but  "  I  was  sure  of  it,"  she  said.  "  Now  all  you 
got  to  do  is  play  your  cards  right,  dearie,  and  you 
got  him."  She  gave  more  advice. 

Hetty  was  not  paying  much  attention,  but,  any 
way,  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  there  were  diffi 
culties.  She  was  not  really  grown-up  all  over,  you 
see.  She  smiled  beatifically  and  planned  a  vista  of 
impossible  happiness  after  the  manner  of  much 
triumphant  melodrama.  The  other  girls  would 
watch  her  go  through  a  thrilling  scene  or  so  in 
the  Sunday-school  room,  the  minister  with  his  arm 
around  her,  defying  every  one  for  her  sake  .  .  . 
She  would  run  the  Ladies'  Aid  and  snub  several 
chosen  girls  from  the  Junior  Endeavor.  .  .  . 

"Was  your  mother  here  when  he  kissed  you, 


136  THE  CONGREGATION 

darling?"  asked  Mrs.  Whitely,  across  the  tide  of 
dreams. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Hetty  absently.  "Oh,  Mrs. 
Whitely,  ain't  he  got  wonderful  eyes !  " 

But  the  lady  had  shopping  to  do,  she  said,  and 
had  to  hurry  off.  Things  were  progressing  even, 
more  satisfactorily  than  the  parlor  carpet  had 
turned. 

The  wife  of  the  Influential  Trustee  was  a  very 
good  woman.  She  went  on  the  principle,  having 
only  read  about  temptations,  that  if  you  had  one 
you  yielded  to  it.  Her  Jim,  who  was  a  boyish, 
warm-hearted  sort  of  person  as  well  as  an  Influential 
Trustee,  had  given  up  trying  to  love  her,  in  be 
wilderment,  some  years  before.  It  was  like  trying 
to  scale  a  glass  wall.  He  adored  the  minister,  how 
ever,  with  a  love  that  was  part  younger-brotherly 
and  part  hero-worship,  and  this  irritated  his  wife, 
because  she  reasoned  that  a  man  who  couldn't  love 
her  should  not  be  able  to  love  any  one  else.  Mrs. 
Whitely,  who  had  grasped  these  facts,  went  to  call 
on  Mrs.  Stark.  When  her  news  was  told  she  re 
ceived  the  first  welcome  she  had  ever  had  in  that 
house,  and  Mrs.  Stark  even  unbent  enough  to  be 
shocked  along  with  her. 

"  Kissed  her !  "  she  repeated,  her  colorless  eyes 


THE  CONGREGATION  137 

hardening  in  her  thin-lipped  little  face.  "  What 
else?" 

Mrs.  Whitely  went  on  talking.  When  she  was 
through  the  two  ladies  parted  cordially  at  the  Stark 
front  gate,  on  their  way  to  separate  rounds  of 
calls. 

The  first  knowledge  the  minister  had  of  anything 
was  from  Hetty  herself.  Her  mother,  questioned 
by  various  interested  persons,  had  promptly  taken 
the  wise  line. 

"  Hetty's  an  innocent  child,"  she  said,  "  an  in 
nocent  child!  She  hasn't  no  notions  of  the  vile 
matchinations  of  that  there  pastor.  She's  sick  now 
with  the  shock  of  bein'  kissed  by  him." 

Then  she  scolded  Hetty  shrilly. 

"  Chasin'  after  a  married  man  old  enough  to  be 
your  father !  "  she  snapped.  "  That  cat  of  a  Whitely 
woman's  settin'  the  whole  Congregation  by  the 
ears,  an'  you  mixed  up  in  it,  as  if  Lillie  wasn't 
enough!"  (Lillie  was  the  second  sister,  married 
a  little  hurriedly  the  year  before.)  "You  gotta 
stop  bein'  a  little  fool  over  him.  You  gotta  tell 
everybody  you  didn't  know  what  his  wicked  plans 
was." 

Hetty  rose  up  in  her  pink  flannel  wrapper  with 
its  coarse  lace  frills. 


138  THE  CONGREGATION 

"  I  love  him!  "  she  declaimed,  as  Beautiful  Junie 
would  have  done  it,  "  an*  I'm  goin'  to  warn 
him!" 

"  Well,  if  you  will  be  a  fool ! "  said  her  mother 
resignedly  ..."  Here's  your  stockin's." 

Hetty,  thin,  fever-flushed,  and  trembling,  burst 
into  the  study,  where  she  found  the  minister  alone. 
She  poured  out  her  story,  clinging  to  his  arm.  The 
Congregation  was  going  to  indict  him.  Mrs.  Stark 
(the  money  was  in  her  right)  might  do  unspeakable 
things.  People  had  come  and  questioned  her 
mother.  And  Hetty  begged  him  to  fly  with  her 
that  night. 

She  did  not  leave  him,  as  Mrs.  Whitely  had 
done,  shrieking  threats.  She  was  younger  and 
quieter,  and  she  had  loved  him  the  best  way  she 
knew.  She  sobbed  on  her  way  home.  She  crept 
back  to  bed  and  kept  on  crying  till  her  mother 
came  and  sympathized,  and  was  confided  in. 

"  He  don't  love  me !  "  wept  Hetty  angrily.  "  He 
says — he  says  he  never  did." 

"  The  coward !  "  said  her  mother  hotly.  "  Well, 
just  you  tell  everybody  all  about  it,  dearie,  if  they 
ask  you — how  he  hunted  you  down,  an'  how  noble 
you  was  about  it,  mother's  poor  little  lamb !  " 

Hetty  sobbed  wordlessly  on.    But  she  was  really 


THE  CONGREGATION  139 

very  much  wounded  by  the  minister's  refusal  to 
elope  with  her — she  tried  to  hide  from  herself  that 
he  had  very  nearly  smiled  at  the  idea.  So  in  the 
end  she  took  the  line  of  defense — or  attack — that 
her  mother  counseled. 

The  minister,  meanwhile,  went  home  to  his  wife. 
This  time  he  told  her  all  about  it,  as  far  back  as 
Mrs.  Whitely.  He  disliked  worrying  her,  but  it 
seemed  time  she  knew. 

"  Oh,  go  to  the  Board  of  Trustees !  "  she  begged. 
"  Go  to  each  of  them  personally  and  tell  them  your 
side  first.  Never  mind  if  it  does  seem  undignified; 
remember  what  a  Congregation  can  do  if  it  gets 
down  on  a  minister.  Think  of  poor  Dr.  Johnston 
last  year,  down  in  Riverton." 

The  things  they  had  done  to  Doctor  Johnston  in 
Riverton  had  been  rather  unnecessarily  brutal.  Mrs. 
Ainslie's  sensitive,  aging  face  blanched  at  the  mem 
ory  and  the  warning  it  carried,  and  her  mouth 
twitched  nervously.  But  the  minister  threw  back 
his  head  and  laughed. 

"Why,  you  little  goose,  my  Congregation  loves 
me  too  much  to  do  anything  like  that!"  he  said. 
"  You  act  as  if  it  were  some  sort  of  a  corporate 
wolf,  instead  of  a  body  of  intelligent  people  that  I 
love  and  trust  and — yes — have  done  a  good  deal 


140  THE  CONGREGATION 

for.  And,  besides,  it's  all  nonsense  about  the  Starks. 
Why,  Jim  and  I  are  like  brothers." 

"  But  it's  her  money,"  said  Mrs.  Ainslie  under 
her  breath.  She  was  not  only  the  wife  but  the 
daughter  of  a  clergyman. 

"  Oh,  Father,  is  anything  going  to  happen  ?  " 
asked  his  daughter,  springing  up  in  quick  terror 
from  the  corner,  and  coming  over  to  him  with  one 
finger  still  keeping  her  place  in  "  The  Faerie 
Queene  ". 

"  Nothing  at  all,  my  darling,"  he  reassured  her, 
putting  his  arm  around  her.  "  Only  some  little 
church  squabble  your  mother  and  I  are  discussing." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  with  a  vague  trouble  in  her 
eyes. 

She  went  back  to  her  place  not  quite  comforted. 
To  her  too  that  strong  animal,  the  Congregation, 
was  something  to  be  dreaded. 

Now,  it  may  be  that  Mrs  Whitely  by  herself 
couldn't  have  done  such  a  great  deal.  But  with 
Mrs.  Stark,  rich,  speckless,  and  white-hot  with  the 
zeal  of  purification,  backing  up  Mrs.  Whitely,  a 
great  deal  was  done.  Mrs.  Stark's  experience  in 
campaigning  for  charities  proved  especially  useful. 

So  one  night  the  minister,  figuring  at  his  table 


THE  CONGREGATION  141 

whether  or  no  the  drunkard  of  the  Congregation 
could  be  coaxed  to  take  the  Keeley  cure,  got  a 
letter.  It  was  signed  by  the  Board,  and  it  told 
him  that  he  was  going  to  have  to  justify  himself 
before  the  Congregation  for  the  various  vulgar 
things  they  assumed  him  to  have  done.  The  Con 
gregation,  lately  such  an  adoring  animal,  had  turned 
on  him. 

Not  all  of  it — there  was  a  body  of  stanch  old 
ladies  who  would  have  followed  him  through  hell 
and  after.  Such  of  the  poor  people,  too,  as  could 
afford  to — such  as  had  no  hopes  of  aid  from  the 
Influential  Deacon's  wife's  many  charities — clung  to 
their  minister.  There  was  a  large  enough  minority 
to  make  it  a  long,  humiliating,  agonizing  fight. 

.  There  are  few  differences  between  the  nerve- 
strains  and  humiliations  of  a  civil  and  a  religious 
trial;  except  that  a  real  court  may  not  ask  certain 
insulting  things,  while  a  body  of  laymen  with  no 
manners  and  an  uncontrolled  curiosity  and  con 
sciousness  of  entire  mastery  can  go  as  far  as  it  likes, 
with  excited  indecency.  Sometimes  after  the  eve 
ning's  free-to-all  horror  Mr.  Ainslie  would  laugh 
gallantly  and  compare  the  Congregation's  doings 
to  the  Alice-in-Wonderland  trial,  with  which  it 
really  had  a  good  deal  in  common.  Sometimes  he 


142  THE  CONGREGATION 

would  go  home  from  his  star-chamber  sick  and 
white.  He  was  brave,  in  the  main,  for  he  believed 
that  the  God  he  so  loved  would  straighten  things 
out  for  him  in  the  end.  He  never  once  stopped 
believing  that. 

He  did  break  down  once,  to  be  sure,  one  day 
coming  back  from  one  of  the  forlorn  house-to-house 
canvasses  he  had  been  making,  begging  his  Con 
gregation  separately  to  believe  in  him.  He  flung 
himself  down  by  the  dining-room  table,  his  head 
in  his  arms. 

"  Jim  Stark  is  on  the  other  side,  Emma !  "  he 
said.  "Jim! — and  we  were  like  brothers!  " 

He  sobbed  there  with  his  head  on  his  arms  among 
the  nicked  glasses.  For  it  was  hard — it  would  have 
been  hard  even  on  a  man  who  had  kissed  a  whole 
Sunday-school  class.  Stark,  wife-ridden,  boyish, 
affectionate,  weak,  had  been  Ainslie's  closest  friend. 
When  your  wife  is  shrewish  and  holds  the  purse- 
strings,  what  can  you  do?  But  it  was  very  hard 
for  Mrs.  Ainslie  to  comfort  her  husband  that  time. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Ainslie  and  his  household 
felt,  all  those  days  of  sick  suspense,  as  if  they 
were  crowded  helplessly  together  on  some  scrap  of 
land  that  was  being  washed  relentlessly  away;  that 
the  tide  was  gaining  with  a  dreadful,  sure  swiftness, 


THE  CONGREGATION  143 

and  would  presently  sweep  them  down  to  bottom- 
lessness.  For  they  had  not  only  to  expect  a  dis 
grace  and  ostracism  more  entire  than  an  ex-con 
vict's,  but  if  Mr.  Ainslie  was  pulled  down  into  the 
deep  water — well,  at  forty-five  a  penniless,  dis 
graced  professional  man  hasn't  much  chance  of 
earning  a  living.  Doctor  Johnston  over  in  River- 
ton  was  trying  to  sell  insurance.  But  it  was  known 
that  he  had  occasionally  to  beg  little  sums  of  the 
people  who  had  turned  him  out.  If  he  hadn't  the 
Johnstons  mightn't  have  had  enough  for  rent  .  .  . 
Still,  Mr.  Ainslie  hoped  desperately  on,  and  his 
wife  pretended  to,  till  it  could  not  be  done  any  more. 

The  Congregation  tossed  him  his  salary  up  to 
date,  when  it  had  finished  with  him.  A  trustee  who 
kept  a  news-stand  and  was  broad-minded  threw  in 
an  extra  ten  dollars. 

"  I  guess  he'll  need  it,  poor  devil ! "  Mr.  Ainslie 
was  told  he  said.  The  whole  Congregation  felt  a 
certain  personal  sense  of  virtue  in  that  extra  ten. 
Ainslie  took  it.  He  had  to. 

They  lived  on  in  the  house  they  had  rented,  for 
it  was  taken  till  the  end  of  the  year.  They  could 
see  the  Congregation  going  to  church  every  Sunday, 
and  the  pleasant  times  over  the  installation  of  the 


144  THE  CONGREGATION 

new  minister.  It  was  believed  that  Mrs.  Ainslie 
had  found  sewing  to  do  for  a  mail-order  house. 
It  was  known  certainly  that  Mr.  Ainslie  sold  his 
books,  which  he  had  held  dearer  than  anything  he 
owned — though  indeed  he  never  owned  much  else. 
But  the  sale  didn't  help  a  great  deal,  because  the 
books  were  not  at  all  dear  to  the  unemotional 
second-hand  dealer,  and  theology,  as  he  explained, 
is  a  drug  on  the  market,  anyhow. 

Mr.  Ainslie  tried  to  get  various  things  to  do. 
But  he  did  not  know  how,  for  one  thing,  and,  then, 
a  minister  whose  Congregation  has  decided  that 
he  has  kissed  a  girl  is  incapacitated  in  the  general 
view  for  other  professions. 

But  he  had  always  said  that  God  would  be  good 
to  him  in  the  end — and  so  God  was;  because  after 
six  months  of  useless  work-hunting,  and  of  being 
brave  when  the  people  he  loved  cut  him  and  his 
wife  and  young  daughter,  he  died  of  what  the 
doctor  explained  was  an  over-strained  heart. 

He  was  simple-minded,  and  what  is  called  con 
ventionally  religious,  to  the  end.  He  talked  about 
the  angels  he  saw  in  the  stuffy  little  room,  and  at 
the  last  spoke  gaspingly  to  his  wife  and  daughter 
about  forgiving  people,  which  they  had  not  been 
able  to  do. 


THE  CONGREGATION  145 

Naturally,  it  was  Mrs.  Stark,  who  had  killed 
Ainslie  for  the  zeal  of  righteousness,  who  came 
forward  to  offer  to  bury  him.  This  was  regarded 
by  all  the  Congregation  as  a  miracle  of  Christian 
kindness.  She  came  late  the  night  after  he  died. 
He  was  in  the  house  still. 

His  wife  would  have  accepted  the  money.  |She 
was  poor,  and  she  was  broken.  But  the  young  are 
improvident — not  having  yet  learned  how  hard  to 
come  by  money  is  and  of  how  little  account  are 
other  things.  \  Naomi,  still  in  a  shabby  colored  frock, 
bent  forward  across  her  mother. 

"  Mother  isn't  to  take  your  money,"  she  said  in 
a  quiet  voice  that  was  like  a  hard  old  woman's.  "If 
the  county  has  to  bury  him  it  will  be  better  than 
letting  you  do  it.  You  have  killed  him,  you  and 
Mrs.  Whitely  and  Hetty  and  the  Congregation.  I 
don't  believe  there's  any  Christ  any  more,  nor 
any  God.  I  don't  think  there's  any  Hell — there 
wouldn't  be  any  use  of  one,  really.  You  are  such 
a  good  Christian  that  I  am  telling  you  this  to 
give  you  a  little  extra  pleasure — you've  killed  his 
body,  and  what  he  would  have  called  my 
soul." 

"  Naomi !  You  are  blaspheming !  "  cried  Mrs. 
Stark.  She  was  shocked,  but  she  could  not  help 


146  THE  CONGREGATION 

thinking  that  it  showed  what  Ainslie  really  was,  to 
have  a  daughter  like  this. 

Naomi  laughed,  a  hard  little  laugh. 

"  I'll  give  God  a  chance,"  said  she,  "  for  Father's 
sake.  Father  had  an  interest  in  Him,  unfortunately 
for  him.  If  your  church  goes  to  wrack  and  ruin; 
if  you  are  dragged  in  the  dirt;  if  Mrs.  Whitely  is 
made  openly  infamous;  if  every  man  and  woman 
in  the  thing — all  the  leaders — suffer;  if  old  Gahegan, 
who  was  the  most  insulting  of  them  all,  is  brought 
down  to  be  a  servant;  if  you,  especially,  have  the 
worst  and  most  humiliating  things  happen  to  you 
that  could  happen  to  a  self-righteous,  wicked  woman 
like  you — it  would  be  losing  your  husband  to  Mrs. 
Whitely,  I  think — then  I'll  consider  God's  case. 
Maybe  I'll  forgive  Him.  Not  you.  But  that 
wouldn't  matter  to  God — He  has  nothing  to  do  with 
you  if  He  exists.  Now,  get  out  of  the  house, 
murderess ! " 

Still  self-righteous  but  a  little  frightened,  too, 
Mrs.  Stark  went.  She  told  herself  that  she  went 
because  she  mustn't  be  late  for  prayer-meeting. 
By  the  time  she  reached  the  church  she  was  com 
placently  angry,  and  agreeably  conscious  that,  hav 
ing  offered  charity  to  those  who  deserved  none,  she 
would  nevertheless  be  nothing  out  of  pocket.  She 


THE  CONGREGATION  147 

slipped   into   her  pew   and   joined   shrilly   in   the 
hymn  .    .    . 

Naomi  stood  quite  still  at  the  window,  listening. 
Her  mother,  struggling  out  of  a  mist  of  tears  for 
the  dead,  remembered  the  living. 

"  Naomi,  dear — you  mustn't  think  such — such 
thoughts." 

Naomi  lifted  her  hand  quickly,  her  head  bent  a 
little.  Faintly,  like  a  muffled  muttering,  the  low 
vibrations  of  an  organ  trembled  through  the  little 
room.  The  voices  were  too  far  off  for  untrained 
ears  to  distinguish  the  words,  but  to  the  two  women 
the  hymn  was  made  distinct  by  the  mere  mechanics 
of  memory  and  association. 

Blest  be-ee  the  ti-ie  that  binds 
Our  hear-rts  in  Chri-istian  love! 

"Listen,  mother!"  Naomi  laughed — a  hard, 
mirthless  little  laugh.  "  I  can  hear  the  Beast — it's 
made  its  kill,  and  it's  purring." 


THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART 

CORINNA  GOLDTHWAITE  lifted  her  dark,  intense 
young  face  from  its  brooding  over  her  window-box 
of  pansies,  and  spoke  to  the  others,  standing  at  the 
far  window. 

"  They're  like  the  faces  of  strange,  little  dear 
animals,"  she  said,  "  little  elfin  animals.  Look, 
Belle." 

Unknowingly  her  summons  was  to  the  man  who 
stood  with  her  cousin.  Belle's  was  more  frank. 

"  Oh,  you  must  come  and  look,  too,  Mr.  Ray 
mond,  unless  you'd  rather  stay  where  you  are,"  said 
little  Belle  coquettishly.  She  flung  a  glance  over 
her  shoulder  at  him,  and  he  followed,  though  he 
had  been  standing  quite  untouched  by  Corinna's 
eager  voice  and  speech.  And  this  was  strange, 
because  all  there  was  to  Belle  was  the  pink  and 
white  and  golden  of  an  apple  blossom,  and  young 
as  Corinna  was  she  was  already  something  of  a 
personage. 

Corinna's  father  had  been  a  famous  naturalist, 
their  house,  on  the  outskirts  of  Allenwood,  where 
"  old  families "  lived  still,  though  summer-resort 

148 


THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART  149 

houses  were  beginning  to  encroach,  a  place  for  pil 
grimages.  Corinna's  own  life  had  been  what  out 
siders  called  a  very  beautiful  one;  her  mother  had 
seen  to  it  that  her  childhood  should  be  something 
to  look  back  to  joyously.  "  You  can't  take  people's 
childhood  away  from  them,"  she  said,  in  the  old 
country  proverb.  The  little  Corinna  had  been  made 
free  of  all  her  father's  wonderful  friends;  there  had 
been  trips  abroad,  music,  beautiful  pictures,  an  old 
garden  to  dream  in,  and  always  happiness  of  that 
kind — mystical,  some  call  it — strained,  others  say  it 
is — which  is  a  product  of  the  Puritan  soul  reaching 
after  beauty.  Her  father  was  a  New  Englander  of 
the  best  type;  her  mother  less  highly-bred,  but 
kindly,  and  worshipful  of  her  husband  and  her  one 
child,  both  wonderful  to  her.  Her  genius  was  for 
loving.  It  was  a  love  which  never  oppressed  her 
people,  earthly  and  anxious  as  it  was.  She  sur 
rounded  them  with  it  as  if  it  were  an  ether.  Co 
rinna  had  grown  up  a  wonder-child,  praised  and 
cherished  by  all  her  father's  famous  friends.  Now, 
at  twenty-one,  she  was  a  successful  artist  already, 
and  a  woman  of  marked  personality  as  well.  Per 
haps  this  last  was  a  little  of  a  pity,  for  it  kept 
people  from  remembering  that  she  was  young. 
There  was  a  something  eager,  mystical,  unusual 


150          THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART 

about  her:  something  which  made  people  who  did 
not  know  her  for  Ira  Goldthwaite's  daughter  feel 
nevertheless  that  she  was  some  one.  Nobody  had 
struck  quite  the  note  she  had  in  her  sketches; 
fantasies  and  grotesqueries  they  were  mostly, 
strange  drawings  for  fairy-books.  Her  pictures 
made  you  feel  that  your  own  simple,  old  imagin 
ings  of  yellow-haired,  full-skirted  fairies  and  hon 
est,  lumbering  bears  and  giants  were  earthly  and 
futile.  Her  fairy-folk  were  unearthly,  elusive 
things ;  even  her  painted  flowers  and  animals  had  a 
hint  of 

The  faint  light  subtly  shining  in 

.    .    .   The  other  wind  within  the  wind. 

She  lived  half  in  what  it  pleased  people  to  call 
a  fairy-world.  It  was  certain,  at  least,  that  she 
spoke  of  the  Other  People  in  as  friendly  and  casual 
a  way  as  she  did  of  her  friends  and  her  books. 
The  whole  quality  of  her  was  unusual,  fine,  elusive. 
Even  from  her  own  mother  she  compelled  a  caress 
ing  homage. 

So  it  was  with  the  perplexed  look  of  a  young 
queen  who  sees  her  lady-in-waiting  mistaken  for 
herself  that  Corinna  saw  Henry  Raymond  turning 
swiftly  at  Belle's  words.  Belle  was  Mrs.  Gold- 


THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART  151 

thwaite's  niece,  a  typical  small-town  girl.  She  had 
lived  in  the  Park,  across  the  lake  from  Allenwood, 
and  found  the  life  of  hurrying  change  and  cheap 
gaiety  in  the  summers  and  of  longer  flirtations  on 
the  deserted  boardwalk  in  the  winters,  all  that  a 
life  should  be.  But  now  that  the  Goldthwaites, 
after  Ira  Goldthwaite's  death,  had  returned  to  Al- 
lenwood,  Belle  was  trying  to  see  something  of 
Corinna.  Corinna  had  responded  graciously,  but 
both  girls  found  friendliness  uphill  work.  There 
was  so  little  to  go  upon. 

Now,  Corinna  loved  Henry,  and  she  had  thought 
he  loved  her.  But  Belle  had  been  visiting  Corinna 
for  a  fortnight,  and  .  .  .  did  he  love  Belle  ? 

At  least  he  was  watching  her  intently  as  she 
bent  over  the  pansies  Corinna  had  praised. 

"  They  have  the  sweetest  colors ! "  Belle  said. 
"  And — oh,  look !  They  just  match  my  dress !  I'm 
going  to  pick  some  to  wear." 

She  broke  them  with  a  child's  pretty  ruthlessnessr 
aiid  glanced  winningly  up  at  Henry  Raymond  as 
she  pinned  them  at  her  bosom.  And  then  Corinna, 
who  loved  Henry,  saw  with  the  swift  intuition  that 
belonged  to  her  that  Henry  did  love  Belle:  little 
pink-and-white  Belle,  physically  over-mature  and 
aware,  mentally  a  winsome,  selfish  child. 


152          THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART 

If  Corinna  had  focused  her  own  strange,  dreamy 
magnetism  on  the  man  she  might  have  won  him 
back  from  her  cousin.  For  Corinna  was  very 
strong-willed  and  compelling,  one  woman  in  a 
thousand;  and  Belle  was  only  a  little,  ordinary 
seeker  after  love.  But  just  because  Henry  was 
the  only  man  who  would  ever  be  on  earth  for 
Corinna,  she  stepped  back  into  the  castle  of  her 
young  maidenliness  and  shut  the  gate  silently. 

"  Gather  the  rest  of  the  pansies,  Belle,"  she  bade 
with  her  strange,  bright  smile.  "  Then  I  want  you 
to  take  Henry  out  and  show  him  the  little  green 
pinewood  I  was  telling  him  about  yesterday,  be 
hind  Allen  Lake,  the  place  where  the  Indian  pipes 
grow  so  thickly  in  summer.  You  may  find  little 
red  berries  there  even  now." 

"  Oh,  but  you  were  going  to  show  him  that ! " 
demurred  Belle,  moving  to  get  her  wraps,  even  as 
she  protested. 

Corinna  smiled  again.  It  was  not  a  young  smile 
any  more;  almost  the  expression  of  a  mother  who 
is  watching  her  children  go  out  and  play.  She 
stood  and  watched  the  two  pass  gaily  out  of  the 
house,  forgetting  everything  but  the  frolic  of  being 
together.  When  they  had  disappeared  she  too  went 
out,  but  in  another  direction. 


THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART  153 

There  was  a  place  she  knew,  a  high,  bare,  wind 
swept  hill  where  she  sometimes  went  secretly  to 
watch  the  sunsets.  It  had  about  it  an  intensified 
quality  of  solitude,  and  it  was  there  that  the  New 
England  mystic  of  her  could  creep  closest  to 
God. 

"  God  will  be  there  now,"  she  said  to  herself, 
smiling  still  as  she  made  her  way  to  it.  "  Perhaps 
He  will  hold  me  from  letting  the  selfish  human  part 
of  me  care  too  much." 

The  sky  was  paling  into  a  spring  sunset.  It  held 
the  dim,  northern  lights,  faint  rose,  clear  grays 
and  sea  colors;  lights  and  tints  more  ethereal,  of  a 
more  spiritual  gate  to  Heaven  than  the  fire-rose 
and  fire-violet  of  midsummer.  Corinna,  with  her 
strong,  young  love  pressing  heavy  on  her,  watched 
the  paling  lights  and  felt  the  keen  spring  wind, 
and  reached  passionately  after  the  feeling  of  God's 
nearness  that  was  always,  for  her,  behind  the  shows 
and  images  of  the  world. 

"It  is  only  love  that  I  have  for  Henry,"  she 
whispered  to  herself,  pacing  swiftly  up  and  down, 
tall  and  wind-blown,  her  great  gray  eyes  fast  on 
the  sunset.  "  If  we  love  people  enough,  it  can  only 
make  us  happy  .  .  .  Love  is  everything.  It 
cannot  hurt,  it  can  only  bless  ...  I  can  be  a 


154          THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART 

wind  of  love  about  them  all  their  days  .  .  .  Why, 
nothing  can  ever  hurt  me  again,  if  I  can  only  love 
enough !  " 

For  an  ordinary  woman  that  thought  would  have 
been  a  vain  thing  against  the  surging  human  forces 
that  say  ruthlessly,  "  I  want !  I  want !  "  But  Co- 
rinna  was  New  Englander,  artist,  mystic;  more 
than  that,  she  was  une  cerebrale,  one  in  whom  feel 
ing  was  strongly  intellectualized.  She  had  unusual 
powers  of  body  and  mind,  powers  that  rayed  from 
her,  and  moved  others  as  she  was  moved.  And  all 
her  own  forces  were  turned  inward  on  herself  now, 
to  hold  her  back  from  the  purely  human  and  selfish 
side  of  love — pain,  chagrin,  denied  desires  .  .  . 
She  would  give  so  much,  so  constantly,  that  she 
would  have  no  time  to  take  or  even  to  ask.  Nothing 
could  hurt  her  any  more;  for  she  would  love  as 
God  loved,  not  for  return,  but  for  pure  joy  of 
loving. 

She  watched  the  sunset  till  it  was  gone :  then  she 
went  down  in  the  dusk  to  her  home.  Henry  and 
Belle  would  be  there  by  now,  talking  to  her  mother : 
the  dear  mother,  so  full  of  little  homely  watchful 
nesses  and  sympathies!  A  little  before  Corinna 
would  have  dreaded  meeting  her  look  of  anxious, 
clairvoyant  affection.  But  now  it  was  all  right. 


THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART  155 

There  was  nothing  to  be  sorry  about  for  her,  no 
pity  she  would  ever  need  again. 

A  quietness  fell  as  she  entered.  There  was  an 
atmosphere  of  still  radiance  about  her,  of  high 
peace.  The  lovers  forgot  the  self -consciousness 
of  their  new  secret,  watching  her.  They  forgot,  too, 
to  speak.  She  smiled  at  them  serenely.  She  loved 
them  very  dearly. 

"  You  are  very  happy,  aren't  you  ? "  she  said 
gently,  with  a  little  laugh  for  their  astonishment. 

"  Oh,  how  did  you  know  ?  "  cried  Belle,  coloring 
and  flinging  her  arms  about  her  cousin.  Belle  had 
felt  a  little  triumphantly  guilty  before,  for  she 
knew  she  had  tried  deliberately  to  take  Henry 
Raymond  from  Corinna — and  won.  Corinna's  at 
titude  took  from  her  both  the  feeling  of  guilt  and 
the  sensation  of  triumph. 

"  Perhaps  the  Good  People  told  me,"  Corinna 
answered  lightly.  "  They  sit  to  me  for  their  por 
traits,  you  know.  Why,  you  dear,  silly  people,  it 
showed  all  by  itself!  .  .  .  I'm  very  glad!" 

The  others  laughed  a  little,  now  the  tension  was 
removed,  and  the  evening  went  on  in  a  tide  of 
easy  gaiety,  Corinna  sending  the  talk  as  she  wished 
it  to  go.  Only  she  saw  her  mother's  eyes,  perplexed 
and  watchful,  fixed  on  her  the  evening  long. 


I56  THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART 

Her  mother  came  to  her  next  morning,  where 
she  sat  at  her  drawing  board.  She  bent  down  and' 
kissed  her. 

"  Is  my  little  girl  quite  happy?  "  she  asked  wist 
fully. 

"  Quite  and  always  happy,"  Corinna  answered, 
smiling  and  returning  the  caress.  "  This  is  such  a 
wonderful  world,  so  full  of  people  to  love  and 
things  to  do !  How  can  I  be  otherwise  ?  " 

"  That  doesn't  sound  like  a  young  girl's  speech," 
said  her  mother.  "  Ah,  well — I'm  glad,  my  dear." 

She  looked  wistfully  at  Corinna  a  moment  longer, 
sighed  and  went  out.  Corinna  went  on  with  her 
work.  She  was  illustrating  an  edition  de  luxe  of 
Andersen,  and  had  just  reached  "  The  Little  Mer 
maid." 

"  It's  going  to  be  one  of  the  best  things  I  have 
done,"  she  thought,  as  she  traced  in  the  young 
queen's  extravagant,  graceful  draperies,  and  the 
slim,  dancing  figure  of  the  Little  Mermaid,  with  her 
upcurved  arms  and  flaring  mass  of  hair.  "  I  must 
be  putting  my  own  happiness  in  it,  I  think." 

It  was,  indeed,  the  best  thing  she  had  done.  It 
was  the  set  of  drawings  which  made  her  rank  as 
an  artist.  These  pictures  had  a  note  new  even  to 
her,  a  sweet,  sexless  unearthliness  that  was  arrest- 


THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART  157 

ing.  They  made  you  feel  so  peaceful,  people  said. 
The  exhibition  of  them  began  a  few  days  before 
she  went  to  her  cousin's  wedding. 

Years  went  along  after  that,  but  few  outward 
and  material  things  happened  to  Corinna.  She  read 
her  mystical  books  and  dreamed  her  mystical  dreams, 
and  painted  her  elfin  pictures.  The  Park  on  whose 
outskirts  they  had  lived  crept  out  round  them,  but 
Corinna  and  her  mother  lived  on  in  the  roomy  old 
house  with  its  wide  grounds.  Corinna  drew  and 
dreamed  and  held  court,  and  was  happy.  She  had 
no  more  lovers.  Men  could  not  get  near  enough 
to  her  to  love  her  as  men  love  women.  Of  both 
men  and  women  who  cared  for  her  as  they  would 
have  cared  for  an  angel,  there  was  no  lack.  She 
grew  to  have  more  and  more  the  quality  which 
compels  worship. 

When  Henry  and  Belle's  oldest  daughter  was 
seventeen  she  came  on  from  the  distant  town  where 
the  Raymonds  lived,  to  stay  with  Corinna  and  her 
mother.  She  was  interested  in  settlement  workr 
and  she  could  find  plenty  to  do  near  Gorinna's 
house.  She  was  her  cousin's  namesake — Corinna 
Goldthwaite  Raymond.  She  had  Henry's  tall 
slenderness  and  Belle's  rose-gold  coloring,  and  the 
quality  of  the  dreamer. 


158  THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART 

Corinna  and  her  mother  were  glad  to  have  the  girl 
with  them.  She  was  light-hearted  and  fanciful  and 
responsive,  and  more  of  a  companion  to  Corinna 
than  any  one  had  ever  been  before.  So,  scarcely 
knowing  that  she  did  it,  Corinna  drew  the  young 
girl — Krin  they  called  her — closer  and  closer  to  her. 
When  Corinna  was  not  at  her  drawing  and  Krin 
was  free  from  her  settlement  work,  the  two  were 
always  together,  talking  softly  and  unceasingly. 
They  shared  their  thoughts  and  dreams  as  if  the 
two  had  been  of  the  same  age.  And  the  strong 
force  of  personality  that  was  Corinna's  drew  and 
held  the  young  girl  till  she  wanted  no  other  friend 
than  her  cousin,  who  was,  by  worldly  measurements, 
a  middle-aged  woman. 

"  But  she  has  never  grown  up,"  Krin  explained 
tenderly  once  to  a  man,  a  poet  and  fantast,  one  of 
the  people  admitted  to  Corinna's  inner  circle.  "  She 
has  a  sort  of  heaven  about  her  wherever  she  goes, 
and  she  always  stays  the  same  age,  like  the 
angels." 

The  man  laughed,  and  tossed  back  his  long  hair. 

"  It  is  not  heaven,  child,"  he  answered.  "  It  is 
Fairyland.  Corinna  has  been  to  Fairyland,  and 
they  are  keeping  her  heart  there  for  her,  under  a 
green  mound.  That  is  why  she  is  eternally  young. 


THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART  159 

What  she  has  now  is  a  heart  of  topaz  or  amber — a 
Fairyland  heart." 

Young  Krin  came  over  to  Corinna,  who  was  sit 
ting  and  listening  with  her  usual  still,  bright  smile. 

"  Is  that  why  nothing  ever  hurts  you  or  upsets 
you;  why  you  are  always  still  and  happy,  no  matter 
what  goes  on?  "  she  asked,  laying  her  arms  on  her 
cousin's  lap  and  looking  up  at  her  with  worshiping 
eyes. 

"  That  is  why,"  Corinna  said,  answering  on  the 
note  of  gentle  fantasy  that  was  a  sort  of  language 
among  her  group.  "  Once  long  ago  I  met  the  Little 
People,  and  they  said  that  I  might  make  their 
pictures,  but  only  if  I  would  come  into  Fairyland 
and  stay  with  them  a  while.  And  we  liked  each 
other  so  much  that  when  I  was  sent  back  I  left 
them  my  heart  to  keep.  '  For  half  my  heart's  in 
Fairyland  and  half  is  here  on  earth ! '  " 

"  They  all  worship  you — but  I  love  you,"  whis 
pered  Krin. 

"  I  love  you,  too,  dear  child,"  Corinna  answered 
in  her  sweet,  caressing  voice.  In  her  heart  of  hearts 
she  was  glad  of  Krin's  love,  almost  humanly  glad. 
She  did  not  realize  how  much  she  liked  to  receive 
it  She  only  knew  that  she  cared  for  the  child 
very  deeply,  as  if  she  had  been  her  own  daughter. 


160          THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART 

"  Nothing  but  good  can  ever  come  of  loving," 
she  told  herself  that  night,  when  she  was  conscious 
of  a  faint  wonderment  over  the  intensity  of  her 
feeling  for  Krin.  "  My  dear  little  girl ! " 

She  looked  around  the  still,  high-ceiled  room, 
with  its  curious,  dreamy  pictures. 

"  There  has  never  a  throb  of  grief  beaten  against 
these  walls,"  she  thought,  as  she  had  so  often 
thought,  with  a  little  thrill  of  pride  in  her  own 
height  above  common  suffering. 

Indeed,  the  few  who  were  allowed  to  cross  the 
threshold  of  her  inner  room,  and  the  many  who 
entered  her  house,  were  wont  to  notice  first  of  all 
the  feeling  of  intense  peace  which  wrapped  the 
place  Corinna  lived  in.  Few  of  her  guests  were 
unsensitive.  The  densest  of  these  felt  the  still  at 
mosphere,  distinct  as  a  perfume,  which  surrounded 
her.  To  be  with  her  was  to  drop  all  the  pulsing  of 
ambition  and  jealousy  and  love  and  hate  that  most 
human  beings  carry.  And  as  her  inner  circle  was 
made  up  almost  entirely  of  people  who  did  creative 
work,  and  as  such  people,  working  in  the  emotions, 
carry  a  heavy  burden  of  feeling,  their  rest  was  as 
great  in  that  shrine-like  atmosphere  as  their  ten 
sion  had  been  in  the  outer  world. 

She  wondered  a  little  sometimes  why  it  was  that, 


THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART  161 

soothed  and  healed  as  she  knew  people  to  be  by  the 
quiet  of  her  home  and  presence,  still  it  was  to  her 
mother  they  brought  their  troubles  for  spoken  help. 
To  the  mother,  who  had  not  a  particularly  impres 
sive  personality,  who  was  merely  a  very  kind  and 
gentle  elderly  woman,  people  showed  their  hurt 
places  nakedly.  Her  room  was  a  confessional. 

Once,  coming  into  that  room  unexpectedly,  be 
lieving  it  empty,  Corinna  had  found  her  mother 
sitting  in  her  accustomed  chair,  with  a  lad  sobbing 
against  her  knees.  He  was  a  young  singer  who  had 
lately  been  drawn  into  Corinna's  circle,  a  boy  whose 
sweetheart,  it  was  whispered,  had  broken  with  him 
brutally.  Corinna  had  looked,  and  slipped  out 
again  before  she  was  seen.  She  had  a  strange, 
half-terrified  feeling,  as  if  she  had  come  too  near 
something  dangerous  and  vibrating.  It  was  so  long 
since  she  had  seen  or  heard  of  a  naked  sorrow.  Yet 
her  mother's  face  had  bent  over  the  lad's  head,  wise 
and  comforting  and  unafraid. 

"  She  does  that  all  the  time,"  Corinna  had  sud 
denly  known.  And  she  wondered  the  more  about 
it. 

For  Corinna's  mother  had  never  learned  Corin 
na's  own  secret  of  peace.  Little  things  fretted  her 
openly,  other  little  things  made  her  disproportion- 


162  THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART 

ately  happy,  as  they  had  done  ever  since  her  daughter 
could  remember.  She  did  not  dwell  on  any  rarefied 
mountain-top  of  still  joy,  and  if  her  maid  or  her 
milkman  did  not  like  her  she  was  uneasy  till  she 
had  won  them — and  had  usually  won  the  stories  of 
their  sorrows  and  joys  into  the  bargain.  Corinna 
smiled  tenderly  as  she  thought  of  her  mother.  She 
had  never  ceased,  Corinna  knew,  wanting  from  her 
daughter  the  little  stream  of  daily  confidences,  of 
tales  of  hurt  feelings  and  hurt  fingers  which  had 
been  hers  in  her  daughter's  childhood.  Corinna 
wondered  dimly  sometimes  if  the  overflowing  of 
her  mother's  sympathy  to  others  were  not  partly 
because  she  wanted  to  be  told  of  Corinna's  hurts, 
and  was  not. 

"Dear  Mother!"  Corinna  would  think,  "I  can 
only  go  on  being  happier  and  happier,  until  some  day 
she  will  believe  in  my  happiness." 

But  even  to  the  hour  of  her  death  Mrs.  Gold- 
thwaite  never  did  believe  it.  Almost  the  last  words 
she  spoke  to  her  daughter  were  words  of  comfort, 
as  if  she  were  a  little  girl  who  was  unhappy. 

Corinna  kissed  her  mother  when  she  was  dead, 
and  knelt  by  her  for  a  little  while.  When  she 
lifted  her  face  again  it  was  lighted  like  an 
angel's. 


THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART  163 

"  Look  at  her ! "  the  nurse  whispered  to  Krin, 
standing  by  her  and  sobbing. 

Corinna  had  taken  this  grief,  too,  up  to  the 
heights. 

"  You  mustn't  cry,  little  Krin,"  she  whispered 
to  her  cousin.  "  See,  I'm  not  crying.  Wherever 
she  is  now  she  is  close  to  us,  and  our  love  is  close 
to  her,  just  as  if  she  were  here  still.  We  can  love 
her  so  much — more.  We  can  love  her  soul  back 
to  us  close — close!" 

Krin  looked  up,  drying  her  eyes,  and  clung  to 
Corinna. 

"  Cousin  Corinna,  you  are  like  an  angel !  Oh, 
I  will  try  to  be  like  you.  You're  so  close  to  God 
you  can't  suffer." 

"  Close  to  God — to  love,"  Corinna  murmured  to 
her.  "  Love  is  everywhere.  There's  no  time  or 
space,  just  the  love  we  give." 

"  But  oh,  I  want  her  love  too ! "  sobbed  Krin, 
breaking  down  again.  "  Only  last  night  she  whis 
pered  to  me  about  being  careful  not  to  lose  sleep, 
because  it  would  tire  me,  and  I  couldn't  do  my 
work  ...  and  she  could  scarcely  talk.  Only 
last  night " 

"  Hush,  dear !  "  said  her  daughter  again.  "  We 
must  love  her  so  much  that  we  won't  have  time 


164          THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART 

to  miss  her  love.  And  we  will  draw  it  to  us, 
so." 

The  next  day  Corinna  opened  a  drawer  where 
she  kept  the  few  things  Henry  had  given  her,  and 
laid  other  things  in  it :  her  mother's  knitting  needles, 
her  gold-bowed  spectacles,  her  religious  books.  It 
was  a  drawer  she  opened  often  and  looked  into 
smilingly,  her  heart  lifted  by  love  for  them 
both. 

Krin  stayed  on  with  her,  except,  as  it  had  always 
been,  in  the  summers.  Then  Corinna  went  away, 
traveling  or  resting  in  some  old  farmhouse,  and 
Krin  was  with  her  father  and  mother. 

The  second  summer,  when  Krin  came  back,  Co 
rinna  thought  she  noticed  a  difference  in  the  girl — 
a  tremulousness  and  excitability,  and  swift  alterna 
tions  of  mood.  But  these,  if  they  had  existed  at 
all,  faded  away  in  the  atmosphere  of  Corinna's 
own  still  radiance.  The  two  women  went  on  with 
their  work,  and  held  their  little  court.  There  were 
as  many  pilgrimages  now  to  Corinna's  house  as 
there  had  been  in  her  father's  time. 

Then,  one  still,  winter  afternoon,  Corinna  was 
called  downstairs  from  her  drawing  to  see  some  one, 
a  Sydney  Corning.  She  did  not  know  the  name, 
but  then  there  were  a  great  many  people  she  gave 


THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART  165 

audience  to  whose  names  were  strange  to  her.  She 
came  into  the  room  where  he  was,  and  greeted  him 
with  her  usual  caressing  stateliness,  that  gentleness 
and  sweetness  of  a  queen  which  was  her  habitual 
manner. 

But,  Sydney  Corning,  who  was  a  handsome  lad, 
scarcely  responded.  He  answered  her  shortly. 

"  I'm  a  friend  of  your  niece's,"  he  volunteered 
when  the  greeting  was  over. 

"  My  cousin,"  corrected  Corinna,  smiling. 

"  Your  cousin,  then — it  doesn't  matter.  And — 
Miss  Goldthwaite,  I  came  to  see  if  you  could  help 
me.  Can't  I  see  you  in  some  place  where  there 
won't  be  any  one  else  coming  in  ?  " 

"  Why,  surely,"  Corinna  answered  with  her  un 
failing  gentleness.  "  Come  with  me." 

She  led  him  to  the  little  sitting-room  her  mother 
had  been  used  to  occupy. 

"  Now  I  will  help  you  in  any  way  I  can,"  she 
said,  smiling  at  him  as  he  rose  impatiently  from 
his  chair. 

"  I  want  you  to  send  Krin  Raymond  away  from 
you,"  he  said  without  preface.  "  They  say  you're 
a  saint  and  an  angel  and  all  that.  Won't  you  let 
her  go?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 


166  THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART 

"  I  think  you  do  not  know.  Miss  Raymond  stays 
with  me  because  she  prefers  it." 

"  I  know  it,"  he  burst  out,  "  I  know  it — and 
you  own  her,  body  and  soul.  She  adores  you  so 
much  that  she's  getting  as  like  you  as  she  possibly 
can  be.  I  didn't  know,  at  first,  whom  she  was 
getting  like.  I  knew  she  wasn't  my  Krin  any  more. 
She  did  love  me.  She  said  so.  But  she  came 
back  the  next  summer,  not  a  human  girl  any  more. 
She's  been  somebody  else  ever  since.  I  thought  at 
first  it  was  grief,  but  it  wasn't,  though  it  dated 
from  the  time  Mrs.  Goldthwaite  died.  She's  happy 
enough  now.  But  she's  like  a  gracious,  pleasant 
statue  .  .  .  She's  like — you !  " 

Corinna  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  I'm  sorry  she  does  not  love  you,"  she  said 
gently.  "  But  it  is  a  little  strained  to  connect  me 
with  it." 

"  I  came  here  very  angry,"  he  retorted  impa 
tiently,  "  and  you're  making  me  feel  that  I  ought 
to  be  very  grateful  to  you  for  letting  me  offer  you 
homage.  It  isn't  what  you  say,  it's  the  atmosphere 
of  you.  But  you  have  done  it  to  Krin,  and  if  you 
really  don't  know,  at  least  you  might  let  me  tell 
you." 

"  Tell,  then,"  said  Corinna,  still  smiling  a  little. 


THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART  167 

He  spoke  more  quietly. 

"  Corinna  was  all  right,  warm  and  human  and 
natural,  till  after  your  mother  died.  She  must  have 
been  one  of  the  most  wonderful  people  on  earth, 
that  mother  of  yours,  to  keep  things  alive  and  the 
rhythm  of  them  going,  against  that  thousand-candle- 
power  feeling  you  give  off.  Why,  just  talking  to 
you,  I'm  beginning  to  feel  serene  and  walled-off 
and  inhuman." 

He  caught  his  breath  for  a  moment,  then :  "  Krin's 
getting  inhuman,"  he  interrupted  himself  abruptly. 
"  She's  far  off,  like  a  priestess — like  you.  Oh, 
Corinna  Goldthwaite,  if  you  do  love  her,  change  her 
back — take  your  spell  off  her!  One  goddess  in  a 
house  is  enough.  She'll  be  like  you  without  the 
genius !  Won't  you  help  me  ?  Your  mother  would 
have  helped  me !  " 

The  rush  of  selfish,  demanding  love  there,  warm 
and  throbbing  in  Corinna's  still  place  of  peace, 
frightened  her,  as  that  sobbing  boy  at  her  mother's 
knees  had  frightened  her  long  ago. 

"But  what  can  I  do,  dear  lad?"  she  asked, 
struggling  for  her  usual  voice. 

"Oh,  don't!"  he  broke  out  bitterly.  "  Krin 
said  just  that,  in  just  that  gentle,  impersonally  lov 
ing  way.  Stop  her  being  like  you,  that's  what  you 


168          THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART 

can  do!  There  are  lots  of  women  nobody  wants 
that  you  can  turn  into  geniuses.  But  leave  my  Krin 
human  and  alive.  I  want  her  to  love  me,  and  care 
whether  I  love  her,  not  scatter  denatured  affection 
over  the  universe !  " 

Corinna  did  not  answer.  She  found  that  she 
could  not  make  her  lips  move. 

The  boy  was  frightened  at  his  own  daring  in 
the  hush  that  followed.  He  looked  at  Corinna 
Goldthwaite,  sitting  before  him,  erect  and  calm. 
She  was  so  gentle  and  great  and  wonderful,  and 
he  had  talked  like  this  to  her !  He  began  to  apolo 
gize  brokenly.  But  Corinna  held  up  one  hand,  with 
the  gesture  of  gentle  sovereignty  that  was 
habitual. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said  at  length  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I  did  not  realize  that  I  was  doing  wrong.  Will 
you  forgive  me?  I — I  love  Krin  too.  She  shall 
not  be  turned  to  stone  .  .  .  ' 

Her  voice  broke  a  little,  and  she  rose  and  left 
the  boy,  still  stammering  his  terrified  apologies. 
To  his  increasing  sense  of  lese  mafeste  was  added 
a  feeling  that  he  had  attacked  Corinna  for  a 
chimera,  an  intangibility.  There  was  nothing  real 
— he  had  been  fighting  air. 

But  the  words  had  pierced  through.     Corinna 


THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART  169 

stood  in  the  middle  of  her  own  locked  room,  and 
searched  her  heart  to  find  how  much  of  this  terrific 
thing  was  true.  She,  with  her  twenty  years  of 
God-given,  still  happiness,  of  years  of  holding  court, 
of  giving  peace  and  surcease  royally  to  the  too- 
intense  people  who  sought  her — she  had  turned  Krin 
to  stone! 

She  waited  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  and  evening 
for  Krin  to  come  in.  The  girl  was  superintending 
a  pageant  that  day  at  her  settlement,  and  Corinna 
knew  that  she  would  not  be  back  until  late  in  the 
evening.  Indeed,  it  was  past  twelve  before  Krin 
returned,  and  through  the  long  hours  Corinna's 
courage  faded.  When  finally  her  cousin  tiptoed  up 
the  stairs,  Corinna  could  only  come  and  stand 
mutely  in  her  lighted  doorway. 

"  It  was  lovely !  "  Krin  spoke,  smiling  at  her. 
"  And  all  the  children  did  so  well,  and  I  loved  them 
so.  They  sang  like  dear  little  rough  angels." 

"  And — do  you  think  they  loved  you?  "  Corinna 
asked,  her  throat  dry. 

Krin  laughed  sweetly. 

"  I  never  thought,  any  more  than  you  do,  cousin 
Corinna !  /  love  them! " 

"  Just  a  minute,  dearest !  "  Corinna  essayed  again. 
"  There  was  a  man  here  today — Sydney  Corning.'* 


170          THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART 

Krin  smiled  again,  that  sweet,  unmoved  smile. 

"  He's  been  confiding  in  you,  poor  boy !  I  am 
sorry  I  let  him  care,  that  summer.  It's  seemed  so 
different,  since.  I — I  don't  want  to  love  anybody, 
that  way.  It's  .  .  .  too  alive  .  .  .  too  close 
and  frightening — feverish!  I  don't  think  I'll  ever 
marry,  dear.  I'm  happy  here  with  you — wonderful 
you!" 

Corinna  did  not  answer.  The  girl  went  singing 
softly  down  the  hall  to  her  own  room.  She  was  in 
her  pageant  dress  still,  a  long  clinging  Greek  gown 
of  green,  with  a  little  wreath  of  green  leaves  on  her 
streaming,  fair  hair.  Her  even  walk  and  trailing 
gown  and  uplifted  fair  head  gave  her  a  look  of 
some  one  unearthly,  a  fairy  lady.  And  a  word  some 
one  had  said  of  herself  once  rushed  back  on 
Corinna — 

"  Her  heart  is  in  Fairyland,  under  a  green 
mound." 

Was  Krin's  heart  there,  too,  young,  vivid  Krin's  ? 
Had  she,  with  her  silently  dominant  influence,  her 
perfect  and  saintly  example,  shut  Krin  out  from 
wifehood  and  motherhood?  What  could  she  do — 
what  should  she  do?  Even  as  she  asked  herself 
she  knew.  No  words  or  implorations  would  avail. 
It  had  not  been  words  or  implorations  that  had  made 


THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART  171 

Krin  like  herself.  She  must  go  back  in  spirit 
twenty  years,  back  to  that  hill  where  she  had  forced 
suffering  out  of  her  heart. 

Up  there  in  the  little  passionless  room,  where  her 
own  sexless,  gently-fantastic  fairy  people  watched 
her  with  their  curious  smiles,  Corinna  knelt  down 
at  the  couch  where  her  mother  had  died,  and  prayed 
again.  In  an  interval  of  her  praying  she  lifted  her 
face,  and  saw  the  only  portrait  in  the  room,  her 
mother's  head.  She  had  done  it  herself,  in  curious, 
radiant  colors.  It  was  a  glorified  likeness.  But 
Corinna  had  known  its  lines  too  well  to  be  able  to 
leave  out  its  kind  earthliness  of  expression,  the 
human,  anxious  mother-look  she  had  been  wont  to 
see  bent  on  herself  so  often. 

When  some  little  everyday  mischance  had  come 
to  Corinna,  something  that  would  have  been  a  thing 
for  the  mother's  sympathy  in  most  households,  Co 
rinna  could  remember  that  expression  on  her 
mother's  face,  baffled,  anxious — her  mother,  cut  off 
from  giving  pity  or  consolation!  Corinna  remem 
bered,  now,  hurt  after  little  hurt  that  she  had  set 
away  from  herself  sublimely.  Had  her  mother  felt 
them  all,  borne  them  all  for  her,  as  she  herself  was 
bearing  now  for  Krin?  Only  it  must  have  been 
more,  much  more,  for  she  was  not  Krin's  real 


172  THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART 

mother.  The  picture,  with  its  mocking  fairy-tale 
colorings,  watched  her  unrelentingly,  its  mother- 
eyes  unrested  still,  still  perplexed. 

Corinna  rose  slowly,  and  went  to  the  drawer 
where  her  memory-things  lay.  There  was  the  pair 
of  yellowing  white  gloves  Henry  had  given  her, 
a  bunch  of  ferns  he  had  gathered  for  her  one 
day,  some  music.  And  by  them  her  mother's  knit 
ting  needles  and  spectacles,  and  some  books.  Co 
rinna  lifted  one,  a  book  of  religious  poetry,  called 
"  The  Changed  Cross."  Her  mother  had  read  that 
last. 

She  had  been  used  to  look  tenderly  at  the  things, 
smiling  with  the  thought  of  her  love  for  them  both. 
Now  she  lifted  them  out,  slowly,  the  unaccustomed 
tears  raining  down  her  face.  She  laid  them  on  the 
couch  where  she  had  been  kneeling,  the  little  futile 
things  which  represented  the  two  great  loves  and 
bereavements  of  her  life.  They  were  both  gone 
from  her  now,  Henry  as  much  as  her  mother,  for 
the  prosperous,  obvious-minded  business  man  Belle 
had  built  out  of  the  impetuous  young  Henry 
Raymond  was  not  even  the  shadow  of  Corinna's 
lover. 

But  the  old  love  for  that  dead  young  lover,  and 
the  sorrow  of  that  love;  Corinna  knew  now  that 


THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART  173 

they  were  in  her  heart  still,  and  that  they  always  had 
been,  shut  down  deep  by  the  work  of  her  own  will. 

She  had — she  made  herself  face  the  stabbing 
truth, — in  her  young  dread  of  pain  and  self-con 
tempt,  deadened  her  hunger  for  Henry's  love  as  any 
very  strong-willed  person  can  deaden  any  desire, 
by  killing  a  part  of  herself  with  it.  She  had  thought 
her  change  a  sublimation — it  had  only  been  a  drug 
ging.  She  had  deliberately  avoided  her  share  of 
the  human  heritage,  her  share  of  suffering  and 
hurt.  She  had  not  been  in  heaven.  She  had  been 
in  Fairyland,  where  hearts  are  spellbound  and  eyes 
incapable  of  tears,  not  heaven,  where — she  could 
remember  her  mother's  voice  reading  it — "  God  hath 
wiped  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes."  And  the  old 
grief  of  her  lost  lover,  the  newer  grief  of  her  dead 
mother,  pressed  heavier  and  heavier,  till  it  seemed 
as  if  her  spirit  would  shriek  and  break  with  the 
accumulated  weight  of  all  the  sorrows. 

But  in  the  midst  of  the  intolerable  hurt  that  so 
crushed  her  down  as  to  make  her  physically  sick 
and  faint,  she  caught  her  breath,  and  her  tears 
checked. 

"Why,  I  am  like  them  now!"  she  remembered, 
"  those  poor  hurt  human  people  who  came  to  mother 
to  be  comforted.  I  am  their  sister  now — 


174  THE  FAIRYLAND  HEART 

'  Sister  to  the  mountains  now 

And  sister  to  the  day  and  night, 
Sister  to  God  .    .    .' 

I  am  human.  I  am  not  in  Fairyland  any  more, 
I  am  close  to  my  own  kind.  Oh,  mother,  if  you  only 
were  here  to  comfort  me !  I  would  be  so  glad  now 
— so  glad  .  .  .  ' 

The  kind,  earthly  face  on  the  wall  never  changed 
its  look  of  denied  perplexity,  of  longing  to  give  a 
love  and  comfort  never  asked  of  it.  The  weight 
of  sorrow  bore  down  drenchingly  on  Corinna.  But 
she  knelt  steadfastly  on,  holding  the  hurt  to  her, 
her  appointed  portion.  And  with  it  came,  touch 
ing  her  almost  as  if  it  had  been  her  mother's  hand, 
the  blessed  sense  of  oneness  with  all  the  world. 

She  belonged  to  people  again,  to  the  world's 
rhythm  of  pleasing  and  being  pleased,  grieving  and 
being  grieved,  of  giving  and  receiving.  She  was 
humanity's  sister.  The  Fairyland  heart  was  gone. 


GOOD  TIMES 

IN  the  prospectuses  and  notices  and  advertisements 
that  you  get  from  us  of  the  Park  about  May,  when 
resort-lust  strikes  you  and  we  are  trying  to  steer 
it  in  our  direction,  you  always  find,  along  with  the 
water  and  the  air  and  the  golf-links,  a  tender-noted, 
sincerely  affirmed  paragraph  about  our  board 
walk. 

We  mean  what  we  say  about  it,  we  who  live  here 
in  the  Park  through  the  eight  long  village  months 
you  don't  see,  as  well  as  the  four  glitter-months  you 
do  see.  We  love  it  ourselves.  It  is  not  so  very 
long,  nothing  like  so  long  as  the  Atlantic  City  one. 
But  it  is  smooth  and  very  wide  and  un-built  on, 
and  garlanded  with  lights  and  jeweled  with  light- 
traced  casinos.  From  the  sea  it  looks  like  a  necklace 
of  yellow  diamonds,  with  the  pier  and  casinos  for 
flashing  pendants.  It  is  the  first  place  you  go  after 
you  have  seen  the  hotel  clerk  about  your  trunk  and 
found  out  where  your  room  is  and  had  your  dinner. 
Other  people  from  the  hotel  are  going  there,  too; 
the  minister  and  his  wife  from  your  home  town, 
the  little  New  York  stenographer,  plump  and  blonde 

175 


176  GOOD  TIMES 

and  uncorseted  under  her  orange  charmeuse;  the 
oculist  and  his  wife  from  Leonia,  with  their  three 
graded  daughters;  the  handsome  young  Rahway 
man,  who  turns  out  afterward  to  have  been  a 
barber,  and  the  two  girls  you  haven't  placed  yet. 
And  presently,  because  it  is  the  Park,  and  because 
it  is  summer  and  you  are  on  a  holiday,  and  because 
your  conventions  are  as  pleasantly  relaxed  in  this 
tingling  salt  air  as  are  your  muscles  and  mind,  you 
all  link  arms  in  a  jovial  row  and  march  dancingly 
down  the  boardwalk  in  a  crooked,  giggling  line. 
And  then  some  bold  spirit  starts  a  fascinating  rag 
time  thing  that  you  scolded  your  small  son  for  wast 
ing  a  dime  on  last  week,  and  everybody  that  can 
sings  it.  And  everybody  is  very  innocently  happy. 
You  continue  to  be  innocently  happy,  with  a  few 
intervals  when  it  rains,  as  long  as  you  stay 
down. 

Now  there  is  no  reason  on  earth  why  you  and 
the  minister  and  the  stenographer  and  the  oculist 
and  the  barber  should  not  foregather  in  the  Park 
on  a  gay  equality,  and  sing  "  Melinda's  Wedding 
Day  "  down  the  jeweled  boardwalk.  There  is  no 
reason  why  you  should  not  lie  all  over  the  sand  in 
the  mornings  clad  in  your  short-cut  bathing  suits, 
taking  snap-shot  groups  of  yourselves  in  piles.  We 


GOOD  TIMES  177 

like  you  to,  indeed,  because  it  shows  that  you  are 
cheerful  and  contented,  and  contented  people  con 
tinue  to  stay  at  the  scene  of  their  joys,  and  spend 
money  that  pays  the  interest  on  the  notes.  You 
would  not  think  of  being  friendly  with  the  little 
ribboned  stenographer  with  her  good-hearted  dis 
regard  of  grammar  and  the  finer  feelings,  at  home. 
Neither  would  the  minister  be  photographed  at 
home  with  his  bathing-suited  limbs  held  to  the  four 
corners  of  the  compass  by  four  convulsed  young 
women,  also  in  bathing  suits.  And,  presumably, 
the  barber  has  not  the  opportunity  of  teaching  so 
many  well-bred  girls  the  one-step  back  in  Rahway 
where  his  trade  is  an  open  secret. 

So  it  really  doesn't  matter  as  far  as  any  of  you 
are  concerned,  you  who  come  down  here  through 
the  four  glitter-months  to  let  us  earn  our  living. 
You  go  back  home,  when  your  weeks  are  up,  feeling 
fine.  You  have  a  fearful  coat  of  tan,  and  much 
less  money  than  you  expected.  That's  all.  As  for 
your  mind  and  your  muscles  and  your  conventions, 
most  especially  your  conventions,  they  tighten  with 
an  automatic,  painless  jerk  before  your  suitcase  is 
lifted  down  from  its  rack  overhead. 

It  is  different  with  the  year-round  people,  who 
have  no  other  homes  to  go  to.  They  stay  in  a  sum- 


178  GOOD  TIMES 

mer-resort  all  winter,  a  Cinderella  of  a  summer- 
resort  that  has  pulled  off  her  electric  jewels  and 
packed  away  her  summer  braveries,  and  merely 
waits  around  till  Prince  Summer-Crowd  shall  come 
again.  It  is  very  hard  on  the  summer-excited,  sum 
mer-spoiled  resident  children.  Nobody  has  thought 
to  explain  to  them  about  the  conventions  that 
tighten  up  at  the  end  of  the  train  ride.  At  least, 
nobody  has  been  able  to  put  it  so  they  believe  it. 
And  that  is  the  whole  trouble,  and  what  this  story 
is  about. 

Nobody  had  even  tried  to  explain  to  Dollie  Valen 
tine.  Dollie  was  not  exactly  a  Park  girl,  but  she 
might  as  well  have  been  for  all  the  time  she  spent 
at  home.  She  lived  in  Radnor  Beach,  a  little  next- 
door  place  to  the  Park,  the  whole  year  round.  The 
unformulated  idea  at  the  back  of  her  goldy-brown 
head  was  that  everybody  interesting  behaved  sum 
mer  fashion  always.  Because  it's  very  hard  to 
realize  what  you  don't  see.  Of  course,  there  were 
many  virtuous,  carefully-behaved  people  in  the 
Park,  people  who  kept  Sundays  village  fashion,  and 
also  kept  their  girls  off  the  boardwalk.  But  they 
were  usually  uninteresting  people  whom  nobody 
young  could  ever  think  of  wanting  to  be  like.  Their 
girls  generally  grew  up  shy  and  dowdy  and  a  little 


GOOD  TIMES  179 

secretly  resentful,  and  either  took  to  books  or  good 
works,  as  people  different  from  their  world  must. 
So  they  never  counted  at  all. 

Dollie's  father  was  Valentine,  of  Valentine  and 
Jenkins,  contractors  and  builders.  He  had  started 
out  as  a  carpenter,  and  made  a  good  deal  of  money. 
There  is  nothing  much  over  at  Radnor  Beach  but 
contractors,  except  plumbers.  They  are  all  well 
off,  because  summer  resorts  have  to  be  kept  per 
fectly  contracted  and  built  and  plumbed.  So  Dollie 
had  all  the  clothes  she  wanted,  and  spending  money, 
and  there  was  a  pianola  and  a  bull-pup.  They  had 
no  maid,  because  Mrs.  Valentine  said  that  she 
wouldn't  stand  for  no  colored  wenches  stealing  the 
very  clothes  offen  your  back.  But  she  did  all 
the  work,  because  it  was  too  much  trouble  to  get 
Dollie  to  help  her.  She  had  all  the  labor-saving 
devices.  Dollie,  considering  all  things,  had  a  pretty 
easy  life.  But  when  you  are  sixteen,  and  pretty, 
and  full  of  vim  to  your  strong  little  brown  finger- 
ends,  an  easy  life  which  includes  pretty  frocks  and 
nowhere  to  wear  them,  a  pianola  with  nobody  special 
to  play  for,  and  a  bull-pup  with  nobody  special  to 
admire  him,  you  feel  almost  as  sad  as  if  you  had 
no  bull-pup  or  pianola  or  frocks  at  all.  Especially 
when  you  know  that  just  across  the  lake  from  you 


i8o  GOOD  TIMES 

all  the  people  are  having  as  much  fun  as  they  want 
all  the  time. 

Like  most  girls  who  grow  up  outdoors  in  sea  air, 
Dollie  was  physically  a  slim  young  goddess.  And 
all  the  shore  girls  learn  a  ready  courtesy,  because 
the  Park  has  company  and  wears  company  manners 
all  summer.  Some  of  them  learn  good  English,  too. 
Dollie  had.  Except  that  her  ways  were  a  little 
more  assured,  a  little  more  challenging,  you  could 
not  have  told  her  from  the  young  girls  at  the  Santa 
Barbara,  where  every  one  paid  six  dollars  a  day, 
and  there  was  hot  salt  water  in  all  the  rooms. 
Partly  the  money  her  father  had  made  for  her,  and 
partly  the  standards  of  the  summer  people,  had  put 
her  beyond  her  father  and  mother,  and  even  her 
brothers,  finely-built,  slovenly,  cheerful  loafers  that 
they  were.  It  had  put  her  beyond  the  other  girls' 
brothers,  too ;  particularly  Tommy. 

Tommy's  other  name  was  Brock.  He  and  Dollie 
had  "  gone  with  "  each  other,  after  the  precocious 
Park  fashion,  since  Dollie  was  eight  and  Tommy 
eleven.  Tommy  was  big  and  cheerful  and  untidy, 
with  tragic  blue  black-lashed  eyes  and  a  great  many 
all-gold  teeth.  His  nails  were  black-edged  also,  and 
he  slouched  and  usually  wore  a  red  sweater.  He 


GOOD  TIMES  181 

plumbed  a  little,  fitfully,  but  it  is  hard  to  work  when 
the  whole  place  is  a  playground.  You  mostly  found 
him  propping  up  a  post  in  the  overhung  esplanade 
we  call  Knockers'  Row,  or  lying  along  the  sand  in 
a  small  amount  of  bathing  suit.  He  was  a  good- 
tempered,  easy-going  boy  enough,  but  he  looked 
about  as  much  in  the  same  class  with  Dollie  as  a 
coal  barge  with  a  private  yacht.  Still,  they  had 
kept  on  going  with  each  other  in  the  winters.  They 
had  to;  there  is  no  other,  kind  of  boy  among  the 
prosperous  artisan  Radnor  Beach  population.  In 
the  summer  they  drifted  apart,  of  course.  As  the 
residents  say,  you  never  see  anybody  you  know  in 
the  summer. 

It  was  late  June  and  the  bathing  was  beginning 
to  be  good.  Dollie  had  run  along  the  sand  about 
three-quarters  of  a  mile  to  get  to  Whitefield  Avenue 
where  most  of  the  people  go  in.  Tommy  was  there 
before  her,  leaning  against  the  high  carpenter's 
horse  thing  the  life  guards  sit  on,  watching  amiably 
for  a  pretty  summer  girl  to  flirt  with  a  little.  He 
grinned  at  Dollie  in  friendly  fashion,  as  she  flashed 
across  the  sand  with  a  couple  of  the  other  girls. 

Dollie  dashed  into  the  waves  and  swam  stroogly 
out  from  shore.  It  was  so  lovely  to  get  out  alone 
in  the  clear  green  water,  out  beyond  the  bathers, 


182  GOOD  TIMES 

and  where  nobody  had  dirty  nails  or  used  crooked 
English,  or  let  smells  of  cooking  get  all  over  the 
house.  While  Dollie  faced  seaward  all  she  could 
see  was  clean,  glimmering  jade-colored  water  and 
clean  blue  sky.  She  loved  beauty,  poor  Dollie 
Valentine,  beauty  and  fitness  and  dainty  ways.  And 
above  all  she  wanted  happiness,  the  good  times  that 
are  flaunted  so  before  you  at  a  summer  resort.  And 
she  was  sixteen,  the  age  when  it  most  seems  to  you 
as  if  youth  was  so  short,  so  terribly  short,  and  all 
the  good  times  life  owed  you  had  to  be  crowded  into 
now — right  now!  And  the  boardwalk,  with  its 
careless,  singing  people  who  had  stopped  being  staid 
for  their  two  or  four  or  eight  weeks,  was  there  to 
tell  her  that  there  was  happiness,  lots  of  it,  and  there 
were  good  times,  luxurious,  auto,  ballroom  good 
times,  if  only  she  could  manage  to  reach  her  hand 
out  a  little  farther  and  get  them ! 

She  slid  over  on  her  back  in  the  water  and 
laughed  a  little  at  the  splash.  Then  she  began  to 
sing  softly  to  herself.  Who  wouldn't,  after  all, 
young  and  strong  and  pretty,  and  lying  out  in  jade- 
colored  water  on  a  June  morning ! 

x  A  hand  caught  hers,  and  she  saw  a  boy's  face 
smiling  at  her  as  she  sang.  He  had  taken  her  sing 
ing  as  an  invitation  to  make  friends. 


GOOD  TIMES  183 

"You  certainly  can  swim,"  he  said.  It  was  a 
gentleman's  voice,  soft-noted  and  clear-cut,  the  sort 
of  voice  some  of  the  expensive  schools  can  teach. 
Dollie  looked  and  heard,  and  smiled  back  and 
splashed  him  a  little. 

Now,  before  we  go  any  farther,  it  is  only  fair  to 
the  boy,  whose  name  was  Herbert  Grant,  to  explain 
that  he  was  not  a  villain  nor  a  seducer,  nor  a  dark 
and  cruel-minded  person  at  all.  He  was  merely  a 
lad  of  twenty  whose  father  had  always  given  him 
more  money  to  play  with  than  he  could  possibly 
need,  and  forgotten  to  give  him  standards  to  use  it 
by.  Or  to  live  by,  indeed,  except  the  general  rules 
of  being  kind-hearted  and  polite  and  keeping  his 
outside  clean.  These  are  not  bad  standards,  but 
they  aren't  enough  to  go  around.  For  the  rest,  he 
was  slim  and  gay  and  gentle-mannered,  a  boy  you 
liked  instinctively.  He  was  bored  to  death,  in  his 
young  desire  for  good  times,  by  the  sedately-superior 
Santa  Barbara  and  summer  girls  who  couldn't  swim, 
and  desired  to  be  jumped  over  breakers.  He  was 
also  the  sort  of  boy  Dollie  wanted  most  to  like. 
She  looked  at  the  brown  hand  that  showed  its  mani 
curing  even  through  the  water,  and  liked  it  and  the 
swift,  soft  voice.  And  all  the  girls  "  picked  up." 
And  when  you  are  sixteen  you  are  certain  as  never 


1 84  GOOD  TIMES 

before  and  never  after  that  there  may  not  be  enough 
good  times  to  last  the  old  year  out.  And  all  this 
explains  why  Dollie  smiled  and  answered. 

"  Some  swimmer  yourself,"  she  said,  showing  all 
her  pretty  teeth,  and  dashing  water  over  him  with 
both  hands.  She  had  to  twist  round  to  do  it,  and 
catch  at  him  to  regain  her  balance,  and  they  both 
laughed,  blue  eyes  into  brown. 

"  Race  you  over  to  the  pier,"  said  the  boy.  "  Can 
you  swim  that  far  ?  " 

"  Sure  I  can,"  said  Dollie  scornfully,  like  a  small 
boy  who  has  been  dared.  She  gave  him  one  parting 
splash,  and  was  off  crawl-fashion.  He  followed  as 
swiftly.  They  reached  the  pier  together,  and  clung 
to  the  posts,  watching  each  other  in  admiration. 

"  Let's  go  up  on  the  beach  and  talk,"  suggested 
the  boy  presently,  and  they  swam  back  and  flung 
themselves  on  the  sand  together.  "  Gee,  but  you're 
pretty,"  he  said  bluntly,  running  his  hand  down  her 
arm  as  they  lay  side  by  side. 

The  touch  was  no  new  thing  to  Dollie.  She  was  a 
boardwalk  girl,  and  they  make  light-hearted  love  all 
summer,  as  the  custom  of  summer  resorts  is.  The 
Park  is  a  sort  of  middle-class  Arcadia,  you  know, 
with  a  brass  band  instead  of  flute  and  tabor.  She 
was  used  to  "  fussing." 


GOOD  TIMES  185 

But  if  the  hand  that  caressed  Dollie's  arm  was 
wonted,  the  soft  voice  was  not,  nor  the  well- 
groomed  look  of  the  boy  even  in  his  bathing  suit. 
Before  this  Dollie  hadn't  been  exactly  grown-up, 
and  had  gone  mostly  with  Radnor  Beach  boys  even 
in  summer.  She  turned  her  pretty  child- face,  under 
its  rose-satin  head  drapery,  toward  his  that  was 
almost  as  pretty  and  young,  and  smiled  like  a  little 
girl. 

"Am  I— really?"  she  asked  half  shyly,  half 
coquettishly. 

"  Indeed  you  are''  said  the  boy  fervently.  He 
was  young,  he  had  been  bored,  and  here  was  as 
pretty  a  girl  as  the  beach  afforded  ready  to  help  him 
have  good  times !  "  You're  the  prettiest,  livest  girl 
I've  seen  since  I  came  down  here,  and  that's  three 
weeks ! " 

In  another  moment,  still  holding  her  slim,  brown 
arm,  he  was  pouring  out  the  story  of  his  weariness 
at  the  Santa  Barbara,  the  lonely  weeks  he  had  put 
in,  and  his  delight  at  finding  such  a  nice  girl  as  she 
was.  It  was  really  a  playmate  that  he  was  so  glad 
of  finding. 

Dollie  listened  hungrily.  What  he  was  saying 
seemed  the  most  interesting  and  important  thing 
that  ever  was.  She  answered  him  briefly  and  gaily, 


i86  GOOD  TIMES 

with  a  real  interest  that  lighted  her  lips  and  cheeks 
and  hurried  Herbert  on.  She  tried  to  hide  her  awe 
at  the  setting  of  what  he  said,  the  money,  the  motor 
cars,  all  the  soft-cushioned  comfort  of  which  the  boy 
himself  was  a  little  proudly  conscious  still. 

Dollie  liked  him  very  much,  and  he  liked  her.  So 
before  they  parted  to  dress  they  had  made  an  ap 
pointment  to  meet  on  the  boardwalk  that  night. 
Herbert  wanted  to  come  to  her  house  after  her,  but 
Dollie  would  not  let  him.  It  was  too  far  off,  she 
said.  What  she  thought  was  that  she  did  not  want 
him  to  see  the  plush  things  in  the  parlor,  nor  her 
cheerfully-sloppy  mother.  They  did  not  fit,  she 
knew,  with  her  own  grace  and  daintiness,  and  she 
did  want  Herbert  to  think  the  very  best  possible  of 
her. 

So  that  night  Dollie  and  Herbert  met  on  the 
boardwalk  and  sat  out  together  on  the  fishing  pier, 
as  far  as  they  could  from  the  intrusive  arc-light. 
In  a  little  while  Dollie's  head  dropped  to  Herbert's 
shoulder,  and  his  arm  locked  round  her  close  and 
comforting.  She  could  smell  the  faint,  fresh  odor 
of  cigarettes  and  violet  water  that  was  shaken  from 
his  coat.  She  remembered  Tommy's  sweater  and 
shivered  a  little,  and  buried  her  goldy-brown  head 
deeper  on  Herbert's  shoulder.  She  had  been  used 


GOOD  TIMES  187 

to  arms  around  her  ever  since  she  could  remember. 
Love-making  is  the  principal  occupation  in  the  Park, 
you  know,  as  in  Arcadia.  The  visiting  girls  do  it 
while  they  are  down.  It  doesn't  matter,  they  say — 
they'll  never  see  the  man  again.  And  most  of  the 
pretty,  empty-lived  Radnor  Beach  girls  do  it  all 
summer  and  all  winter.  Which  is  natural  enough, 
when  you  come  to  think  of  it.  The  oculist's 
youngest  daughter  from  Leonia  was  sitting  three 
benches  off.  Her  head  was  on  a  man's  shoulder, 
too,  a  man  she  had  picked  up  on  the  beach  the  day 
before.  But  she  went  home  in  two  weeks,  with  a 
harmless  little  love  affair  to  remember,  a  delightful, 
clandestine  feeling  of  adventure  and  having  had 
something  happen.  Dollie,  you  see,  had  no  some 
where  else  to  go. 

The  next  night  there  was  an  auto  ride.  It  seemed 
he  really  had  a  machine  of  his  own.  Dollie  had  not 
quite  believed  him  till  he  appeared  in  it.  They  took 
one  of  Dollie's  girl  friends  and  a  boy  Herbert  knew, 
and  went  up  to  Marty's.  There  was  a  very  expen 
sive  dinner  with  bottles  of  champagne,  and  just  one 
little  cocktail  apiece  for  the  girls,  because  they 
wanted  them,  and  a  long  ride  afterward  in  the 
moonlight.  The  girls  were  set  down  at  a  corner 
near  their  homes  at  about  two,  and  went  home  very 


i88  GOOD  TIMES 

happy  and  excited.  Dollie's  mother  scolded  a  little 
next  day,  but  not  much.  You  can't  do  a  thing  with 
the  children  in  the  summer  time !  That  is  the  motto 
with  which  Radnor  Beach  mothers  dismiss  many 
things. 

Herbert  was  down  for  the  summer.  He  did  not 
mind,  now  he  had  found  Dollie.  He  was  very  much 
in  love  with  her.  You  would  have  been  in  love  with 
her  that  summer,  too;  she  was  so  pretty  and  so 
young,  and  so  gay  and  so  loving.  All  the  nice  girls 
Herbert  had  known  so  far  had  not  known  very  well 
hew  to  keep  up  their  end  of  love-making,  and  he  had 
been  a  little  shy  of  them,  a  little  afraid  they  were 
too  good.  But  Dollie  was  as  young  and  decorative 
and  pretty-mannered  and  gentle  as  any  of  them,  and 
the  careless  life  she  had  always  led,  of  light-hearted 
love-making  with  any  friendly  lad  she  knew,  had 
smashed  all  the  troublesome  barriers  boys  of  twenty 
find  so  annoying. 

"  Have  as  good  a  time  as  you  can,"  say  the  little 
boardwalk  girls.  "  There  isn't  much  else  to  do,  and 
it's  slow  enough  in  the  winter,  goodness  knows !  " 

Herbert's  friend  went  home  in  a  couple  of  weeks, 
and  Ola,  Dollie's  friend,  faded  away  into  the  dis 
tance  with  another  boy.  Chums  are  a  nuisance  any 
way,  when  you're  in  love.  After  that  the  two  went 


GOOD  TIMES  189 

their  way  alone.  They  spent  their  mornings  on  the 
beach,  their  afternoons  on  the  lake  or  ocean,  and 
they  danced  at  all  the  tango  places  within  a  radius  of 
twenty  miles  in  the  evenings,  always  alone,  always 
together.  There  never  will  be  anything  prettier 
than  Dollie,  dancing  the  wild  new  dances  in  her 
vivid  satin  frocks,  held  tight  in  Herbert's  arms. 
There  is  something  about  two  young  people  very 
much  in  love,  a  gladness  and  lightness  of  heart  that 
is  blown  out  to  you  like  a  perfume.  That  is  what 
people  mean  by  "  all  the  world  loves  a  lover." 

Neither  of  them  thought  much  about  what  was 
going  to  happen  next;  they  were  enjoying  them 
selves  too  much  right  now.  Dollie  had  reached  out 
her  hands  and  caught  the  good  times  that  had  been 
flying,  like  butterflies,  just  beyond  her  for  so  long. 
She  was  having  as  good  a  time  as  other  girls  in  the 
Park,  no  matter  how  happy  or  how  rich  they  were. 

One  night,  fortunately  for  their  appetites  a  few 
yards  from  a  roadhouse,  the  car  broke  down.  Her 
bert  laughed  a  little  and  swore  a  little,  but  it  was 
too  late  to  do  anything  till  morning,  and  anyway 
they  were  both  starved.  They  laughed  over  it,  and 
went  to  the  roadhouse  and  ordered  a  long,  drink- 
dotted  meal.  It  was  three  before  they  had  finished, 
wine-thrilled,  young,  very  much  in  love.  And  it 


190  GOOD  TIMES 

was  late  next  morning  when  Dollie  got  home.  Her 
mother  took  it  for  granted  that  she  had  been  with 
Ola,  and  there  was  nothing  much  said.  Mothers 
always  scold  a  little — you  have  to  expect  that. 
After  that  there  were  other  times  "  with  Ola  " — it 
is  so  easy  to  do  things  when  you're  young  and  pretty 
and  in  love,  and  all  the  world  is  one  careless,  kissing 
Arcadia.  Nobody  bothers  with  you  much  in  the 
Park  in  the  summer.  They  are  too  busy  having 
good  times  themselves. 

So  things  went  on  in  a  world  that  was  all  sun 
shine  and  green  water  and  dancing  and  laughter, 
till  September  came,  and  Herbert's  people  began  to 
think  about  going  home.  Of  course,  when  they 
went,  Herbert  had  to  go,  too. 

He  couldn't  very  well  tell  his  people  about  Dollie 
just  then — Dollie  saw  that,  didn't  she?  Though  if 
she  really  wanted  him  to  he  would  tell  them  every 
thing,  every  single  thing — even  if  it  did  mean  every 
thing  being  smashed  up  for  him. 

And  Dollie,  sobbing  very  pitifully,  said  that  he 
mustn't  tell  them  till  he  found  a  good  time  for  it. 
Herbert  said  he  was  sure  the  best  time  would  come, 
very,  very  soon,  and  he  would  come  back  at  the 
latest  before  Christmas,  and  marry  her.  They  even 
planned  out  their  honeymoon.  They  clung  to  each 


GOOD  TIMES  191 

other  passionately,  and  Herbert  was  nearer  to  crying 
himself  than  a  man  likes  to  get  at  twenty.  They 
parted,  feeling  that  there  was  nothing  in  life  worth 
while  but  getting  back  to  each  other.  Meanwhile 
there  would  be  the  consolation — not  much,  but  still 
a  consolation — of  daily  letters. 

Herbert  did  not  come  back  when  Dollie  thought 
he  would.  She  set  it  over  the  farthest  edge  of 
probability,  the  beginning  of  November,  so  she 
would  be  surprised  when  he  came  long  before  that. 
He  wrote,  but  not  as  often  as  he  had  said.  His 
letters  were  conscientiously  fervent,  but  they  grew 
farther  and  farther  apart.  And  he  did  not  come  in 
November.  Then  Christmas  came.  But  Herbert 
did  not  come.  And  he  sent  nothing — not  even  a 
letter,  not  even  a  card. 

The  day  after  New  Year  Dollie  finally  gave  up 
hope.  She  locked  herself  in  her  little  shiny-var 
nished,  red-rose-papered  room,  and  clutched  a  post 
card  picture  of  Herbert  in  a  pasteboard  aeroplane, 
and  cried  till  there  was  a  great  wet  spot  in  the  rose- 
patterned  spread  that  she  had  made  to  nearly  match 
the  wallpaper.  She  cried  as  she  had  never  known 
anybody  could  cry — till  there  was  no  cry  left  in  her ; 
till  she  had  reached  that  dreadful  other  side  of  tears 
where  everything  is  gray  and  sane  and  feels  like 


192  GOOD  TIMES 

death.  When  she  had  come  to  this,  she  rose  from 
the  bed  and  went  over  to  sit  and  think  by  the 
window.  From  where  she  stared  she  could  see  the 
ocean,  with  its  empty  boardwalk  and  its  little  gray- 
brown  waves  slapping  tiredly  against  the  shore. 
Even  the  sea  stops  showing  off  when  the  summer 
people  go.  The  boardwalk  itself  was  empty  and 
dismantled  looking,  with  all  its  strings  of  colored 
lights  put  away  against  next  June.  It  is  not  a  good 
place  to  see  when  you  are  considering  what  to  do 
with  a  spoiled  child-life,  because  it  is  so  dreary  an 
allegory  of  forsakenness  itself. 

She  felt  hopelessly  little  and  wrecked  and  alone. 
She  sat  limply  in  her  rocker  and  stared  down  the 
long  empty  boardwalk,  and  suffered  dully.  Her 
eyes  focused,  at  length,  on  a  far  gleam  of  red. 
Tommy,  or  some  other  boy  like  him;  some  boy  she 
had  learned  better  than  to  be  content  with.  And 
the  empty  boardwalk.  Yet  that  was  the  best  there 
could  be  for  her  now,  if  she  could  dare  have  even 
that,  spoiled,  degraded  little  summer  toy  that  she 
was !  And  Herbert  was  happy  somewhere,  gay  and 
loved  and  untouched,  forgetting  all  his  promises  and 
his  love — and  what  he  had  made  of  her!  And  she 
loved  him  so!  She  loved  him  even  yet,  as  only 
strong,  passionate  young  sixteen  can  love.  It  was 


GOOD  TIMES  193 

he  who  had  made  her  this — so  gentle  and  kind  and 
wonderful  a  playmate  as  he  had  always  been.  She 
could  scarcely  piece  together  the  dear  boy  lover  who 
had  always  been  so  chivalrous  and  wonderful,  and 
this  boy  who  had  done  a  cruel  thing  to  her  and  for 
gotten  her.  Yet  they  were  both  Herbert.  Because 
of  Herbert  there  were  no  good  times  for  her  any 
where  any  more.  Were  there?  Dollie's  rounded 
childish  face,  innocent  still,  as  it  had  always  been 
ignorant,  hardened  suddenly  into  a  middle-aged 
woman's.  Now  she  was  this,  and  her  Herbert,  still 
prosperous  and  beloved  and  triumphant,  was  going 
on  with  his  good  times  without  her.  It  didn't 
matter  what  this  did. 

Finally  she  got  up  and  went  over  to  the  mirror 
and  powdered  her  face  carefully,  rouging  it  till  it 
was  a  fair  counterfeit  of  the  old  childish  bloom.  It 
was  a  half-mechanical  process.  She  had  never 
needed  to  do  much  rouging  before.  After  she  had 
made  herself  look  like  herself — only  it  was  an  arti 
ficial  girl  instead  of  a  real  one — she  sat  on  for 
hours,  staring  through  her  image  in  the  glass, 
scarcely  thinking.  There  didn't  seem  to  be  anything 
to  do  but  go  on  sittmg  there  forever — forever — till 
she  died. 

"  Dollie !  "    called    her   mother    sharply    up    the 


194  GOOD  TIMES 

stairs.  "  Here's  one  of  the  girls  wants  you  to  go 
down  on  the  boardwalk.  Want  to  go  ?  " 

She  rose,  still  mechanically,  and  went  down  the 
stairs.  The  boardwalk — always  the  boardwalk !  If 
you  lived  anywhere  near  it  it  owned  you,  whether 
for  good  or  bad.  The  boardwalk  was  there, 
stripped,  desolate,  with  the  winds  blowing  across  it. 
But  there  were  still  boys  on  it.  There  was  Tommy 
Brock.  It  didn't  matter  to  him  much,  she  knew 
that,  whether  she  had  done  what  she'd  done  or  not. 
The  Radnor  Beach  boys  more  or  less  expected  the 
girls  to  be  that  sort.  There  was  nothing  left  for 
her  of  all  the  things  she  had  wanted — the  things  she 
belonged  with.  She  thought,  shudder ingly,  of 
Tommy's  black  nails,  of  his  good-natured  vulgari 
ties.  .  .  .  But  there  were  other  boys — perhaps 
boys  as  pleasant — oh,  no,  no — there  couldn't  be! 
But  still  .  .  .  Tommy  would  do  to  go  with  till 
next  summer.  And  perhaps  next  summer 

"  I'll  show  him  I  don't  care ! "  thought  Dollie, 
forlornly  defiant.  She  looked  in  the  glass  again, 
seeingly  this  time.  She  was  almost  what  she  had 
been  before. 

"  Kisses  don't  leave  any  mark,"  she  remembered 
hearing  people  saying.  Having  your  heart  broken 
• — being  a  bad  girl  instead  of  a  good  one — hadn't 


GOOD  TIMES  195 

left  any  mark,  either.  Might  as  well  go  on  having 
good  times.  Other  men — and  if  it  came  to  marry 
ing  Tommy,  in  time — well,  that  was  a  long  way  off. 

Her  poor  little  face  hardened.  It  had  been  such 
an  innocent  face! 

"  Tell  'em  I'm  coming,  Mother ! "  she  called  down, 
and  leaned  forward  for  one  more  look  in  the  glass. 

"  You  gotta  have  good  times !  "  she  said  to  herself 
over  and  over,  under  her  breath,  and  ran  down  the 
stairs. 


OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN 

CELIA'S  tray  had  been  carried  down.  Celia  herself, 
up  on  her  sleeping-porch,  felt  like  going  to  sleep  for 
the  night,  she  said;  but  the  phonograph  wouldn't 
disturb  her.  So  Ruth  tiptoed  across  the  floor  of  the 
bungalow  and  put  on  a  soft  needle.  She  sank  into 
one  of  the  low  chairs  that  stood  on  either  side  of 
the  hearth,  and,  all  alone  in  the  twilight,  crossed  her 
hands  and  prepared  to  listen  to  the  record. 

It  was  one  of  the  oldest  she  had,  and  it  was 
scratchy  in  some  places  and  blurred  in  others.  But 
Ruth's  sober  face,  as  she  listened,  softened  to  a 
girlish,  dreamy  content,  and  her  great  wistful  gray 
eyes  lighted  tenderly.  It  was  just  a  foolish  old  rag 
time  thing  with  cheap  words  and  wistful  unexpected 
rhythms,  sung  by  two  negro  voices  that  were  rich 
even  through  the  medium  of  the  scratched  disk. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Dream-man,  please  let  me  dream  some 

mo' , 
Just  lak  the  dream  ah  had  the  night  befo' " 

sang  the  woman's  voice  in  the  refrain. 

196 


OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN  197 

"  Ah  dreamt  about  a  lovin'  man,  he  was  so  sweet, 
When  ah  start  to  think  of  him  ma  heart  begins 
to  beat  .   .   ." 

The  words  blurred  here;  it  had  been  an  old  record 
when  Ruth  got  it.  She  did  not  mind.  She  knew 
how  the  end  would  be;  the  same  words  over  again. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Dream-man  .    .    .  please  let  me  dream 
some  mo'!" 

She  sat  still  long  after  the  record  was  finished. 
Her  face  was  still  lighted  and  her  lips  moved  oc 
casionally.  You  would  have  thought,  to  see  her, 
that  the  old  record  was  one  some  lover  of  hers  had 
sung,  or  perhaps  been  very  fond  of.  But  Ruth 
Allaire  had  never  had  a  lover. 

It  had  not  been  that  she  was  ugly,  or  repellent. 
She  had  simply  never  happened  to  have  the  time  or 
the  chance.  When  you're  very  shy  and  very  busy 
and  only  ordinarily  pretty,  men  don't  necessarily 
take  the  trouble  to  love  you.  Ever  since  Ruth's 
tenth  year  she  had  worked  hard  and  desperately. 
Her  mother  had  worked,  too,  till  she  died,  and  so, 
later,  had  pretty,  delicate  Celia,  the  seven-years- 
younger  sister.  Ruth's  health  had  been  rugged 
enough  to  stand,  by  a  narrow  margin,  day-work  and 


198  OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN 

night-school  study,  but  the  pleasures — well,  they  had 
never  seemed  to  come  close  enough  to  touch,  some 
how.  And  now  they  never  would,  because  she  was 
thirty-one — and  then,  there  was  Celia. 

Celia  had  worked,  too.  But  she  had  played  as 
well,  and  her  health  had  not  stood  the  double  strain 
of  office-work  and  good  times.  So  it  was  a  wonder 
ful,  a  providential  thing  that  a  year  before,  when  the 
doctors  had  begun  to  talk  cheeringly  about  open-air 
cures,  Ruth  had  attained  to  the  height  of  being  a 
certified  expert  accountant.  This  meant  that  she  did 
not  have  to  keep  books  in  an  office  any  more.  She 
went  and  came  very  much  as  she  pleased,  and  told 
banks  whether  their  accounts  were  correct,  which 
is  a  very  exceptional  position  for  a  woman  of  thirty- 
one.  Half  her  work  could  be  done  at  home.  So  she 
was  able  to  buy  the  little  bungalow,  ten  miles  out  of 
the  Park  where  the  pines  were  thick,  with  its  sleep 
ing-porch  on  the  second  story  for  Celia;  and  there 
the  two  of  them  lived  with  the  collie,  far  off  from 
the  world.  Ruth  went  down  to  the  city  alternate 
weeks.  It  was  rather  a  long  pull,  but  she  managed 
it.  When  she  was  away,  old  Mrs.  Cooley-down-the- 
road  did  for  Celia. 

Celia  fretted  a  little,  but  on  the  whole  she  was 


OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN  199 

fairly  sweet  about  it,  though  there  was  a  lover  wait 
ing  till  she  should  get  well. 

"Of  course,  it's  all  right  for  you,  Ruthie,"  she 
would  say  when  she  was  loneliest,  "  you  never  did 
care  for  men  or  good  times  or  anything  but  getting 
ahead.  But — oh,  dear!  to  lose  a  whole  year  out  of 
your  life  because  of  one  foolish  old  lung,  with 
everything  just  chasing  by  down  in  the  city !  " 

"  I  know,  dear,"  Ruth  would  say,  "  but  just  be 
patient  a  little  longer."  And  Celia,  easily  com 
forted,  would  happily  reread  Harry's  last  letter. 

Celia  was  only  making  the  mistake  that  the  rest 
of  the  world  did;  that  because  Ruth  did  not  ask  for 
things  she  did  not  want  them.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  for  the  first  three  months  in  the  lonely  bunga 
low,  with  only  kindly,  busy  Dr.  Atchison  going 
in  and  out,  Ruth  had  been  nearly  wild  with  loneli 
ness  and  nerve-strain,  and  the  dreadful  feeling  that 
there  would  never  be  anything  in  life  for  her  but 
hurried,  careful  drudgery.  But  this  was  all  over 
now,  and  Ruth  was  nearly  as  contented  as  her  sister 
thought  she  ought  to  be.  She  had  built  herself  the 
dream-man. 

It  was  absolutely  ridiculous,  a  performance  a 
mathematician  thirty-one  years  old  had  no  excuse 
for.  But  when  you  have  been  the  lifter,  not  the 


200  OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN 

leaner,  all  your  hard  life,  and  finally  face  the  fact 
that  youth,  with  all  its  gold  maybes,  is  gone;  espe 
cially  if  you  are  worn  by  overwork  and  overworry 
and  are  only  a  tired  woman  after  all,  why — you 
have  to  do  something,  or  break.  Perhaps  the  real 
trouble  was  that  Ruth  was  a  born  wife.  It  is 
almost  impossible  to  expend  one's  womanly  affec 
tions  on  rows  of  figures  in  ledgers. 

It  started  one  night,  with  the  playing  of  the  little 
disk.  Ruth  had  bought  a  second-hand  phonograph 
to  amuse  Celia.  Celia  didn't  like  it  much,  after  all; 
it  was  too  vivid  a  reminder  of  unattainable  dances. 
But  to  pleasure-starved  Ruth  it  became  a  joy.  And 
on  a  night  she  happened  to  play  "  Mr.  Dream-man." 
She  was  all  alone  downstairs,  as  usual.  She  heard 
it  through,  lying  back  in  her  chair.  She  sprang  up 
at  the  end  of  it,  staring  ahead.  She  had  been  wild 
with  nervous  depression  all  day. 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  have  a  dream-man?  "  she  de 
manded  aloud.  "  Why  shouldn't  I  pretend  to  my 
self  the  kind  of  a  lover  I'd  like  to  have  had?  It 

won't  hurt  anybody.  And  nobody "  she  laughed 

a  little  bitterly — "  nobody'd  suspect  me  of  being  so 
silly!" 

And  so,  out  of  mists  and  wishes  and  story-books 


OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN  201 

and  wistful  imaginings,  but  principally  out  of  the 
little  old  scratched  ragtime  disk,  Ruth's  dream-man 
was  made. 

She  always  arranged  the  room  carefully  be 
fore  she  summoned  him.  Then  she  would  put  on 
the  record  and  fold  her  hands  and  wait  his  com 
ing. 

At  first  he  was  rather  a  shadowy  idea,  but  he 
gradually  became  real  enough  for  Ruth  to  have 
drawn  a  picture  of  him  and  written  ©ut  his  life  his 
tory.  She  had  made  him  come  in  always  about 
the  time  the  song  had  reached  its  second  line.  First 
his  step  without,  a  quick,  decided  footfall ;  then  the 
door  flung  open. 

"  For,  of  course,"  said  Ruth  to  herself,  "  he  is  the 
master  of  the  house." 

And  then — 

"  Well,  little  girl !  "  she  would  dream  his  voice,  as 
she  sat  motionless  in  the  firelit  dusk.  "  Have  you 
wanted  me?  " 

There  would  be  a  fresh  breath  of  outdoors  about 
him,  as  if  he  had  come  from  a  long  walk  up  through 
the  pines. 

"Oh,  yes!"  Ruth  would  whisper.  "You  don't 
know  how  I  have  missed  you !  " 

And  then — but  she  did  not  dare  this  till   the 


202  OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN 

dream-man  had  come  several  times — then  she 
sprang  up  to  greet  him  with  her  arms  out,  and  they 
kissed  each  other. 

(Ruth  flushed,  even  this  latest  evening,  when  she 
came  to  this  part.  But  surely  he  would  kiss  her, 
if  she  was  his  little  girl  that  he  loved  and  took  care 
of!) 

Then  she  would  fuss  about  him  lovingly.  But 
he  never  let  her  do  much  waiting  on  him. 

"You  have  looked  after  other  people  all  your 
life,"  was  one  of  the  comforting  things  he  would 
say.  "  Now,  it's  your  turn  to  be  looked  after, 
honey." 

(She  reached  one  hand  across  to  shut  off  the 
phonograph,  ended.  "Please  let  me  dream  some 
mo'!"  But  her  dream  would  go  on.) 

He  dressed  in  a  trim  khaki,  outdoors  fashion. 
His  work  kept  him  outdoors,  she  knew,  though  for 
some  time  she  did  not  know  exactly  what  it  was. 
She  did  know  that  he  was  deeply  browned  by  the 
sun,  so  deeply  that  his  eyes  looked  sapphire-blue  by 
contrast.  His  hair  was  curly,  just  a  little,  and  thick, 
and  sunburned  till  there  were  gilt  streaks  through 
its  light-brown. 

Tonight  he  flung  himself  down,  half -kneeling,  on 
the  hearth-rug  between  Ruth  and  the  collie.  She 


OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN  203 

could  nearly  touch  his  gilt-streaked  hair  in  the  fire 
light. 

"You  are  so  pretty,  my  little  girl,"  he  said. 
"  And  I  love  you  more  every  day.  .  .  .  How  long 
have  we  been  engaged,  dear?  " 

Ruth's  eyes  looked  contentedly  into  the  dusk. 

"  Three  months,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  I  was  so  lonely 
before  you  came! " 

He  stroked  her  hand. 

"  But  you  are  not  lonely  now,  my  dear,"  he  said. 
"  You  will  never  be  lonely  again." 

"  I  know  that!  "  she  said.  "  Oh,  I  am  so  glad 
there  is  you !  " 

Then  silence  fell  for  a  while.  That  was  one  of 
the  most  comforting  things  about  the  dream-man. 
You  could  be  as  quiet  as  you  liked  or  talk  as 
much  as  you  liked,  and  he  loved  you  just  the 
same.  .  .  . 

What  was  at  first  merely  a  fantastic,  pleasant 
daydream  became  very  nearly  a  passionate  reality 
to  lonely  Ruth  in  her  solitude  of  crowded  city  or 
isolated  woods.  The  day  she  found  herself  buying 
a  set  of  Conrad  because  he  was  a  man's  author,  and 
she  wanted  to  talk  about  him  with  the  dream-man, 


204  OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN 

she  laughed  at  herself.  She  smiled  at  herself,  too, 
faintly,  for  getting  some  simple  little  evening 
frocks — she  had  never  had  any  before — because  the 
dream-man  thought  her  neck  and  arms  were  pretty. 
But  the  time  when  she  got  herself  the  little  gold 
lovers'-knot  ring,  she  could  not  laugh  at  herself. 
She  found  her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 

Her  lips  and  cheeks  brightened,  and  the  men  in 
the  banks  where  she  worked,  who  had  seen  her  pass 
so  long,  an  efficient  machine,  began  to  be  conscious 
of  the  feel  of  femininity  about  her,  for  she  was  look 
ing  after  her  appearance  more  than  she  ever  had  in 
all  her  hurried-up  life  before. 

"  Miss  Allaire's  got  a  sweetheart,"  the  younger 
of  them  decided. 

"  You  have  such  lovely  hair !  "  he  had  whispered 
the  night  she  did  it  the  new  way  the  first  time.  In 
deed,  she  had  so  much  of  it  that  she  had  always 
merely  plaited  it  tight  and  wound  it  out  of  the 
way.  "  I  like  my  little  girl  to  be  pretty!  " 

That  was  the  time  he  told  her  the  long  story  about 
himself.  He  half-sat,  half-lay  in  the  old  place  she 
loved,  on  the  rug  between  her  and  the  collie.  While 
he  held  her  hand  in  both  his  long,  brown  capable 
ones,  he  told  her  all  about  his  boyhood. 

"  I    had    a    hard    time,    too,    dear,"    he    said. 


OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN  205 

"Worked  my  way  straight  through  college  and 
technical  school." 

"  And  you  had  some  one  to  support,  too,"  Ruth 
answered  in  that  fancied  intercourse. 

"  Yes,"  he  said.    "  I  had  my  mother.   ..." 

"  And  what  books  do  you  like  best  ?  "  she  asked 
inconsequently.  But  it  was  hard  for  her  to  imagine 
the  answer,  because  she  knew  so  little  about  men. 
The  next  time  she  went  to  the  city  she  bought  the 
Conrad  and  subscribed  to  a  sporting  magazine  and 
an  engineering  monthly.  She  could  not  expect  him 
to  talk  all  the  time  about  the  woman  things  that 
were  all  she  knew !  After  that  she  came  to  imagine 
quite  interesting  conversations  with  him  about  sport 
and  engineering.  If  there  had  been  a  real  man,  they 
might  have  made  him  laugh;  but  a  dream-man  has 
to  follow  very  much  the  lines  of  conversation  you 
lay  down  for  him.  Though  Ruth  got  to  the  point 
where  she  had  to  make  scarcely  any  conscious  effort 
as  regards  his  end  of  the  talking.  It  came,  it 
seemed,  almost  of  itself.  How  did  he  come  to 
have  been  here,  in  the  pines,  to  have  found 
her? 

"  I  love  pinewoods,  Ruthie,  even  little  ones.  You 
remember  the  day  when  I  came  ta  the  door  first? 
There  was  a  fearful  snowstorm " 


206  OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN 

"And  I  let  you  in  out  of  the  snow "  Ruth 

whispered. 

"  And  I  knew  that  you  were  the  one  girl  there  was 
for  me." 

"  We  both  knew,"  Ruth  said  half -aloud. 

Her  voice  broke  the  spell.  The  dog  sprang  up 
with  a  sleepy  bark,  a  log  crashed  through,  and  Ruth 
came  back  to  the  reality  of  the  fire  and  the  loneli 
ness  and  the  little  scratched  record  at  rest  on  the 
sewing-table.  The  dream  was  over  for  the  night. 
She  went  slowly  to  bed. 

But  as  she  fell  asleep  there  was  a  drowsy,  sweet 
content  wrapping  her  round,  and  she  imagined  that 
she  could  hear  quick  steps  lessening  in  the  distance. 

From  being  only  an  evocation  of  the  disk,  Ruth's 
dream-man  came  to  accompany  her  every  thought 
and  step  all  the  day  long.  She  held  long  talks  with 
him  as  she  went  about  her  daily  work  in  the  house. 
He  kept  step  invisibly  with  her  in  the  city  streets. 
Celia  scarcely  ever  came  downstairs,  Mrs.  Cooley- 
down-the-road  did  not  seem  to  be  given  to  curiosity. 
There  was  no  one  to  disturb  Ruth  at  her  lonely, 
happy  play. 

So  gradually  she  made  the  den  off  the  living-room 
into  a  room  for  her  dream-man.  There  she  kept  his 
books  and  his  case  of  instruments  for  mechanical 


OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN  207 

drawing,  his  magazines,  his  sofa-pillows;  there  was 
his  chiffonier,  with  the  silver  frame  on  it  for  his 
mother's  picture.  There  was  his  banjo  that  he  told 
her  he  had  taught  himself  to  play  on.  There  in  the 
closet — so  far  did  the  fantastic  play  take  her — hung 
his  white  flannels.  The  drawers  of  the  chiffonier, 
even,  grew  to  be  full.  Ruth,  entering  the  room, 
could  evoke  him  at  will.  But  the  strongest  reality 
of  him  was  still  by  the  living-room  fire,  on  the  rug 
at  her  feet  or  leaning  eagerly  forward  in  his  chair, 
talking  to  her  tenderly,  or  brightly,  through  the  long 
lonely  evenings. 

Presently  the  fairy-story  she  was  telling  herself 
became  fcoo  real  for  the  comfort  of  Ruth's  expert- 
accountant  side.  It  came  to  a  point  where  she  could 
almost  see  his  shape  coming  through  the  door  at 
half -dusk — nearly  hear  his  footsteps.  The  touch  of 
his  arms  around  her,  his  lips  on  hers,  came  to  be  as 
teal  a  feeling  as  the  tangibilities  of  her  everyday 
life. 

"  I  must  not — oh,  I  must  not !  "  she  said  to  her 
self,  catching  her  breath.  "  It  is  heavenly — but  I 
may  go  crazy  if  I  keep  this  up  much  longer!  " 

Yet  she  could  not  bear  to  give  up  entirely  the 
dream-man  who  was  her  only  happiness.  She  would 
only  summon  him,  she  decided,  when  she  was  very 


208  OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN 

lonely.  And  one  shouldn't  be  very  lonely  with  work 
to  do  and  a  sister  to  love  and  a  perfectly  good  collie 
and  an  adequate  income.  .  .  . 

Ruth  cried  stormily  all  the  night  she  came  to  the 
decision,  as  if  she  had  sent  away  a  real  lover.  She 
locked  the  door  of  his  room  next  day,  sobbing  as 
she  did  it.  She  was  too  tired  to  be  self -controlled, 
she  reminded  herself.  The  strain  of  the  housework 
and  nursing  and  the  long  journeys  might  be  making 
her  want  to  cry  if  there  had  never  been  any  dream- 
man  at  all — and  a  sharp  little  pain  went  flying 
through  her  heart  as  she  put  back  the  key  on  her 
ring,  a  physical  pain  as  sharp  as  the  mental  one. 
But  Ruth  was  firm  with  herself. 

"  Not  unless  I  am  very  lonely,"  she  said. 

For  two  months  she  held  to  her  resolution.  She 
suffered  quite  as  much  as  if  she  had  given  up  a  real 
lover. 

Finally,  one  unseasonably  bitter  night  in  No 
vember,  when  the  work  for  Celia  and  her  own  work 
had  both  been  cruelly  heavy,  she  broke  down. 

"  Just  one  more  night  with  my  dream-man !  "  she 
pleaded  to  the  common-sense  self.  "  Oh,  I  must 
have  him  just  once  more — I  must!  .  .  .  If  I  can't 
think  some  one  is  sorry  for  me  and  loves  me  I 
shall  die!" 


OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN  209 

She  fled  up  to  her  room,  softly,  for  fear  of  wak 
ing  Celia.  She  put  on  deliberately  her  prettiest 
frock,  a  pale  blue  satin  with  a  sash  of  deep  rose — 
a  frock  she  had  bought  for  her  dream — and  with 
slippers  and  stockings  to  match.  She  fastened  a 
necklace  round  her  throat  and  bracelets  on  her 
arms.  She  waved  her  hair  carefully  and  heaped  it 
high.  She  was  thinner  and  paler,  she  could  see  in 
the  glass,  than  she  had  been — the  two  lonely  months 
had  told  on  her.  She  touched  her  cheeks  with  nail- 
rouge  till  they  were  faintly  pink  again.  Then  she 
walked  slowly  downstairs,  still  fighting  the  desire. 
It  was  so  like  the  night  she  had  imagined  for  her 
dream-man's  first  coming! 

"  Let  me  in — let  me  in !  "  he  seemed  to  say,  knock 
ing  against  her  heart. 

And  as  she  fought  the  obsession  there  was  an 
actual  rap  at  the  door.  It  toned  so  uncannily  with 
her  visionings  that  her  first  impulse  was  to  run 
and  bolt  the  door  against  the  dear  vision  which  was 
becoming  stronger  than  she.  But  as  the  imperative 
knock  came  a  second  time  her  common  sense  made 
her  cross  slowly  to  the  door  and  throw  it  open. 

"  I've  lost  my  way,  I'm  afraid,"  said  a  man's 
quick,  pleasant  voice  from  behind  the  wall  of  snow 
the  wind  had  heaped  smoothly  up  to  the  very  door- 


210  OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN 

handle.  A  spray  of  pine  lay  on  the  top  of  the  drift, 
Ruth  had  time  to  notice,  before  the  stranger 
struggled  through  it.  "  May  I  come  in  ?  The  snow 
has  stopped,  but — I'm  afraid  I've  got  to  rest  a 
minute  before  I  can  go  on." 

She  could  only  see  a  straight  dark  shape  in  the 
dusk.  Even  yet  she  was  scarcely  certain  whether 
the  hallucination  was  not  finally  conquering  her. 
But  "  Come  in,"  she  said  in  a  frightened  voice.  And 
the  man  pushed  himself  through  the  snow  and 
across  the  threshold. 

He  was  tall.  His  dripping  hair  curled  a  little 
under  his  cap.  He  was  so  heavily  tanned  that  it 
made  his  eyes  seem  a  brighter  blue  than  they  ac 
tually  were.  Ruth's  heart  beat  wildly.  He  was 
real — yes,  that  was  certainly  real  snow  that 
dripped  from  him  in  water  on  the  floor — and  yet — 
he  was  like  the  dream-man. 

Ruth's  expert-accountant  side  took  the  helm 
again.  "  If  he's  a  hallucination  I  may  as  well  go 
on  with  it  till  he's  through,"  it  said;  "  if  he's  a  real 
man  I  ought  to  help  him.  So  either  way " 

The  dream-man  pushed  the  door  shut  behind 
him,  pulled  off  his  wet  cap  and  laughed  a  little. 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  too  wet  to  be  anything  but  a 
nuisance,"  he  said.  "  But  may  I  try  to  dry  out  a 


OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN  211 

little  by  the  fire?  And  thank  you  for  letting  me 
take  shelter." 

"  Oh,  yes,  please  come  near  the  fire,"  she  said 
shyly,  and  watched  him  fascinatedly  as  he  moved 
close  to  the  blazing  logs  and  half -knelt  beside  them. 
Just  so  she  had  imagined  her  dream-man  kneeling 
by  the  fire  a  hundred  times!  She  took  a  sudden 
resolution.  It  was  only  kind,  after  all — the  thing 
she  was  going  to  do. 

"  In — in  that  room  there,"  she  faltered,  one  hand 
playing  nervously  with  her  necklace,  "  you'll  find 
dry  clothes,  and — I  think — everything  you  want." 
She  pointed  to  the  dream-man's  room. 

He  rose  from  beside  the  fire  and  smiled  at  her. 
Ruth's  heart  lifted  sharply — his  look  and  gestures 
were  so  like  the  dream-man's  still! 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said,  and  entered  the  door  she 
held  open  for  him.  She  thought  she  heard  him  ex 
claim  as  the  door  shut.  She  heard  him  moving 
hurriedly  about,  changing,  she  supposed.  Then 
there  was  silence  for  a  little. 

Ruth  bent  to  the  phonograph.  She  laughed  at 
herself  for  being  so  foolish.  Yet — she  adjusted  the 
disk  and  set  it  softly  playing.  Its  first  sounds  were 
drowned  by  the  hasty  flinging  open  of  a  door. 

"  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  demanded  the  stranger, 


212  OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN 

striding  over  to  her.  He  had  dressed  himself,  Ruth 
noted  hastily,  in  the  white  clothes  from  the  ward 
robe,  and  they  fitted  him.  Her  eyes  were  shining 
and  his  forehead  was  knit  in  perplexity.  "  What 
does  it  mean?"  he  asked  again  passionately. 
"  That's  my  room,  or  it  might  as  well  be.  Those 
are  my  books,  nearly  all  of  them,  in  the  case— my 
pictures  on  the  wall — you've  even  got  alpenstocks 
crossed  over  the  mantel  the  way  mine  are." 

Ruth  put  her  hand  over  her  heart,  which  was  mis 
behaving  now  worse  than  it  had  at  all,  though  it  had 
worried  her  a  good  deal  lately. 

"  Do  you  mean — do  you  mean  you  have  a  room 
like  that — somewhere  ?  "  she  panted. 

'"'  Yes"  said  the  stranger.  Then  he  pulled  him 
self  together.  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for  being  so 
excited  about  it,  but  it  certainly  was  queer.  The 
fellow  that  owns  that  room  must  be  my  other  self 
V  .  .  it  certainly  is  curious — almost  exactly  the 
room  I  have,  even  to  the  mechanical  drawing  instru 
ments  and  the  frame  where  I  keep  my  mother's 
picture  on  the  bureau — only  his  frame  hasn't  any 
picture  in  it." 

He  sat  down  opposite  her  in  the  dream-man's 
chair,  and  bent  over  to  pat  the  dog's  head.  "  By 
Jove,  it  was  funny — like  the  things  you  read  about 


OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN  213 

in  a  fairy-book !  "  he  said.    "  Is  it  your  husband  ?  " 
he  asked  frankly,  "  the  chap  with  tastes  like  mine?  " 

He  waited  eagerly  for  her  answer.  There  was 
only  one  thing  to  say,  or  so  it  seemed  to  Ruth. 

"  My — my  husband,"  she  replied  faintly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  said  the  stranger  in  a 
strained  voice.  "  Your  husband,  of  course." 

A  little  silence  fell  after  that.  The  man's  blue 
eyes  were  fixed  on  the  rug  at  his  feet.  Ruth 
watched  his  brown,  strong, face,  shadowed  as  it  had 
not  been  before  she  spoke.  She  broke  the  silence 
nervously. 

"  How  did  you  come  to  be  out  on  such  a  dreadful 
night  ? "  she  asked.  Unconsciously  her  voice 
softened  as  if  she  were  speaking  to  her  own  veri 
table  dream-man. 

He  smiled  again,  with  a  flashing  of  white  teeth. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  confessed.  "  It  was  a  silly 
thing  to  do.  I  acted  on  one  of  those  queer  impulses 
that  you  get  up  and  follow  sometimes  before  you 
know  what  you've  done.  I'd  been  doing  some  moun 
tain-climbing  in  the  Far  East — I  generally  spend 
my  vacation  that  way — and  one  of  those  see- 
America-first  ideas  struck  me  so  hard  that  I  came 
back  here.  And  nothing  would  do  but  that  I  should 
go  exploring  before  I'd  been  ten  minutes  in  the 


214  OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN 

hotel,  even.  And  I  had  a  strange  feeling — ever  have 
it? — that  something  awfully  good  was  at  the  end  of 
the  journey.  I  used  to  have  it  when  I  was  a  kid 
sometimes — that  there  was  a  corking  surprise  wait 
ing  for  me  at  the  end.  So  I  was  day-dreaming,  I 
suppose,  as  I  walked,  and  didn't  notice  how  exces 
sively  lost  I  was  getting,  or  how  high  the  snow  was 
piling.  I  was  about  all  in  when  I  saw  your  light." 

He  stopped  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair  as  if  he 
were  not  only  tired,  but  a  little  down-hearted  about 
something.  Ruth  saw,  now,  that  he  was  older  than 
she  had  thought.  There  was  gray  in  his  hair,  and 
his  face,  when  he  did  not  smile,  was  sharper  cut 
than  she  had  imagined.  He  was  thirty-five,  at  a 
guess,  and  some  of  the  years  had  been  hard  ones. 

He  was  so  like  the  dream-man — so  very  like! 
Ruth  longed  to  kneel  by  him  and  slip  her  bare  arm 
round  his  neck  and  whisper,  "  I  am  sorry  you  are 
tired — I  am  sorry  there  was  no  wonderful  thing  at 
the  end  of  your  journey — but  you  have  me  still, 
remember,  dear ! " 

But  he  was  real,  and  a  stranger,  and  she  had  told 
him  she  was  married. 

"  You  must  be  hungry  and  thirsty !  "  was  all  she 
could  find  to  say.  "  I  will  get  you  something." 

She  fled  to  the  kitchen,  and  made  chocolate  and 


OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN  215 

broiled  meat  and  prepared  salad  and  creamed  pota 
toes  with  quick,  shaking  hands,  while  her  heart  beat 
suffocatingly,  agonizingly.  She  had  to  lean  against 
the  door  to  catch  her  breath.  In  an  incredibly  short 
time  she  had  the  food  on  a  tray,  on  a  little  table 
beside  the  stranger.  He  lifted  the  chocolate  to  his 
lips,  thanking  her,  and  drank  off  the  contents  of  the 
little  cup.  Then  he  lifted  his  wrist  to  the  level  of 
his  eyes,  as  if  something  had  pricked  him. 

"That's  a  price-mark!"  he  said,  jerking  the  bit 
of  pasteboard  from  his  sleeve.  "  This  suit  has  never 
been  worn.  And  neither  had  any  of  the  other  things 
I  put  on.  Ah,  tell  me " 

Ruth  lifted  both  tremulous  hands  toward  him, 
mutely  begging  him  to  stop.  He  caught  her  wrists, 
bringing  her  hands  nearer  to  him,  examining  them 
closely. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  he  said  vehemently. 
"  And  you  have  no  wedding-ring  on — why  did  you 
say  you  were  married  ?  " 

It  never  occurred  to  Ruth  to  question  his  right 
to  ask  her,  or  to  wonder  what  it  all  was  to  him. 
She  was  overwrought  already  by  the  strain  and  ex 
citement  of  his  coming,  and — though  she  did  not 
realize  it — the  work  and  unhappiness  of  the  lonely 
months  before. 


216  OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN 

"  I  will  tell  you  —  I  will  !  "  she  said  panting. 
"Only  don't  look  so!" 

"  I  haven't  any  right  to  ask,  I  know,"  he  said  in  a 
softened  voice.  "  But  if  you  will  -  " 

He  broke  off  confusedly,  with  his  blue  eyes  fixed 
on  Ruth  hungrily,  beseechingly. 

"  I  was  so  lonely,"  she  falteringly  began,  "  so 
very  lonely!  And  I  have  never  had  time  to  play, 
nor  been  where  there  was  any  one  to  play  with 
me  .  .  ." 

"  I  know,"  he  said  softly;  and  the  understanding- 
ness  of  his  voice  gave  her  courage  to  go  on.  She 
lifted  her  eyes  to  his. 

"  I  bought  this  phonograph  for  Celia,"  she  said, 
"  and  it  played  one  night,  '  Oh,  Mr.  Dreom>- 


The  story  was  not  so  hard  to  tell  as  she  had 
thought  it  was  going  to  be.  But  it  was  hard  enough, 
at  that  —  the  story  of  the  loneliness  that  had  become 
desperation  and  had  finally  made  her  build  a  lover 
out  of  dreams  —  of  how  the  dream  had  become  so 
real  that  she  had  furnished  the  room  for  him,  and 
dressed  herself  as  she  had  thought  he  would  love 
to  see  her. 

He  said  nothing.  He  only  stood  and  listened  to 
her  with  a  deepening  light  on  his  face.  His  eyes 


OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN  217 

were  fixed  on  hers.  Ruth  flung  away  from  him  with 
a  cry. 

"  Oh,  I  am  ashamed !  "  she  said.  "  It  was  such  a 
foolish,  foolish  thing  to  do !  " 

She  laid  her  arms  on  the  mantel,  and  her  head  on 
them.  She  did  not  cry — she  was  too  heartsick  for 
the  relief  of  tears.  She  shuddered  as  if  a  cold  wind 
were  blowing  over  her. 

She  heard  her  dream-man's  voice  behind  her  at 
length,  speaking  softly. 

"  Let  us  try  the  charm  again,"  he  said.  She  heard 
him,  through  her  shamed  misery,  at  the  phonograph. 
The  music  began  to  play  again,  softly  and  scratchily. 
. ."  Oh,  Mr.  Dream-man  .  .  ." 

She  heard  him  move  behind  her.  His  hand  was 
laid  on  her  shoulder — so  like  the  firm,  warm  hand 
of  her  dreams ! 

"  You  called  me,"  he  said  gently.  "  Don't  you  be 
lieve  it,  my  dear  ?  You  must  have  called  me  all  the 
way  from  over  there.  .  .  .  You  must  have  been 
very  lonely,  my  poor  little  girl !  And  I — I  have  been 
lonely,  too,  always." 

Ruth  lifted  her  face  and  stared  at  him.  What 
was  there  in  the  sound  of  the  words  that  he  was 
saying  ? 

He  came  close  and  put  his  arms  around  her. 


OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN 

"  It  is  true,  is  it  not?  "  he  said.  "  And,  Ruth,  I 
don't  see  why  either  of  us  ever  need  be  lonely 
again." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Dream-man! "  crooned  the  forgotten 
phonograph,  "please  let  me  dream  some  mo'!" 

"  I  shall  never  be  lonely  any  more ! "  whispered 
Ruth,  laying  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  She  closed 
her  eyes,  for,  though  she  was  perfectly  happy,  she 
was  very  tired. 

Mrs.  Cooley-down-the-road,  clumping  faithfully 
through  the  snowdrifts  next  morning  toward  her 
regular  Friday  cleaning  of  the  bungalow,  exclaimed 
fretfully,  "  Holy  Mary!  "  at  the  sight  of  the  blown- 
open  door. 

"  I'll  be  a  good  half -hour  cleanin'  away  the  snow- 
wreaths  on  the  door  itself,"  she  grumbled  as  she 
plowed  through  the  untouched  mound  of  snow  that 
was  heaped  door-handle  high,  with  a  spray  of  pine 
on  its  top. 

The  crouching  collie  whined  at  the  sight  of  her, 
and  ran  to  her  catching  her  skirt  in  his  teeth  and 
tugging  at  it.  And  Mrs.  Cooley,  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  snow-wreaths,  screamed.  For,  by  the 
mantel,  beyond  a  little  table  set  with  untouched  food 
and  drink  for  two,  half-stood,  half-leaned  Ruth. 


OH,  MR.  DREAM-MAN  219 

She  was  clad  in  blue  silk  with  blue  beads  around 
her  neck  and  bracelets  on  her  wrists,  and  her  hair 
was  waved  and  carefully  dressed.  Although  her 
half -hidden  lips  smiled  and  her  cheeks  were  faintly 
tinted  still,  Mrs.  Cooley  could  see  that  she  was  dead. 
The  old  Irishwoman  shuddered  and  crossed  her 
self.  "  Aye,  it  did  always  be  risky  work,  settin*  out 
the  place  an'  the  clothes  an'  the  food  for  Them.  But 
the  Lord  knows  I  couldn't  be  sayin'  anything." 
She  shuddered  again,  and  went  reluctantly  up  the 
stairs  to  Celia.  She  never  looked  back.  But  vivid 
in  her  mind  still  was  the  picture  of  the  crisp  maline 
of  Ruth's  shoulder-knot;  marked  in  five  ridges  as  by 
the  strong  pressure  of  a  loving  hand. 


DEVIL'S  HALL 

IT  was  rather  late  in  the  afternoon  for  them  to  be 
out  walking  so  far  from  home,  Cousin  Quincy 
and  Naomi,  but  Mother  knew  where  they  had  gone. 
At  least  they  pretended  to  each  other  that  they 
thought  she  did. 

In  October  most  of  the  summer  people  had  gone 
away  from  Allenwood,  across  the  lake  from  the 
Park,  and  their  beautiful  big  houses,  all  set  about 
with  box  hedges  and  flowered  lawns,  were  left 
alone.  If  you  went  up  there  then  with  a  basket 
and  scissors  you  could  always  bring  home  lots  of 
nasturtiums  that  would  maybe  keep  on  growing, 
and  red-and-yellow  leaves  like  the  ones  that  made 
the  letters  at  the  station.  And  once  they  found  a 
kitten,  a  little  gray  kitten,  that  was  so  starved  and 
gaunt  and  heart-breaking  that  they  had  to  hurry 
home  with  it  as  fast  as  ever  they  could,  so  as 
not  to  cry  out  loud  about  it  before  they  got 
there. 

So  this  afternoon,  while  Mother  was  dashing 
around  trying  to  get  to  her  Ladies'  Aid  in  time, 
Naomi  had  suggested  to  Cousin  Quincy  that  it 

220 


DEVIL'S  HALL  22t 

would  be  nice  to  cross  the  bridge  to  Allenwood  and 
get  her  some  flowers. 

"  Can  I  take  Cousin  Quincy  out  to  hunt  flowers, 
Mother  ?  "  Naomi  asked,  and  Mother  was  in  such  a 
Ladies'  Aid  hurry  that  she  never  asked  where.  She 
just  said,  "  All  right,  sweetheart.  Be  good  children 
and  don't  go  far,"  and  hurried  off,  and  they  took  the 
big  basket  and  went  as  straight  as  they  could  over 
'the  Allenwood  bridge. 

There  was  a  long  stretch  of  the  emptied  houses 
along  the  side  of  the  lake,  with  now  and  then  one 
that  somebody  lived  in  all  winter.  This  made  it 
very  heart-beating  and  adventurous,  because  you 
never  could  tell  which  mightn't  be  a  lived-in  house, 
with  some  one  to  call  out  of  an  unexpected  window, 
"  Go  away,  you  children ! "  very  crossly. 

Quincy  had  the  trowel.  Naomi  ought  to  have 
carried  it,  because  she  was  seven  and  he  was  only 
six,  but  today  she  had  been  absent-minded,  and  he 
had  pounced  on  it.  She  let  him  have  it,  because 
she  knew  he  would  sit  down  flat  if  she  insisted  on 
her  rights,  and  she  was  in  a  special  hurry  to  get  to 
Allenwood.  The  truth  was,  she  was  carrying  a 
Dark  Secret  that  day  instead  of  the  trowel — a  Dark 
Secret  and  a  Quest.  She  was  looking  for  Devil's 
Hall. 


222  DEVIL'S  HALL 

When  deacons  came  to  see  Father  you  could 
always  be  sure  of  hearing  something  interesting  if 
you  sat  mousy-quiet  and  let  them  forget  you  were 
there.  This  had  been  a  very  vehement  deacon,  the 
one  who  told  Father  about  the  Devil's  Hall. 

"  They  call  it  the  Devil's  Hall  down  in  the  vil 
lage,"  said  the  deacon  quite  unmistakably,  pounding 
the  armchair  hard,  "  and  it  looks  it.  Respectably- 
married  couple,"  he  went  on  louder,  "  and  every 
minute  he's  out  of  the  house  she  does  exactly  what 
she  pleases — carouses  with  all  the  riff-raff  in  town, 
and  she  only  nineteen,  and  he  not  much  older." 

Nineteen  seemed  quite  old  to  Naomi,  but  the 
deacon  seemed  to  think  it  was  young.  Naomi  won 
dered  how  old  he  was.  Ninety,  maybe. 

"And  what  about  him?"  asked  Father,  pulling 
his  eyebrows  together. 

"  It's  her  money  he's  living  on,"  said  the  deacon 
quite  growly-ways,  "  and  he  doesn't  care  as  long  as 
he  can  bum  around  town  on  it.  Lets  her  do  any 
thing  she's  a-mind  to." 

Here  Naomi  had  forgotten  herself  and  asked, 
"What  does  she  a-mind  to,  Deacon?"  So,  of 
course,  Father  sent  her  out  flying  on  an  errand  he 
knew  Naomi  knew  was  made-up.  She  was  sorry, 
because  the  deacon  looked  as  if  he  was  just  going 


DEVIL'S  HALL  223 

to  pound  again.  But,  anyway,  she  had  enough  to 
go  on,  so  she  arranged  things  as  quick  as  she  could 
to  go  see,  Mother  being  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  the 
Ladies'  Aid  and  all. 

"  What  do  you  think  it  looks  like?  "  asked  Quincy 
when  they  were  well  on  their  way,  and  Naomi  had 
told  him  all  about  it.  Naomi  felt  doubtful. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  Something  like  the 
Pilgrim's  Progress,  maybe." 

"  Or  the  Purgletory  Book?  "  said  Quincy,  getting 
excited.  The  big  Dante  with  the  Dore  illustrations 
was  his  pet  picture-book.  "  Little  round  pavement- 
holes  to  poke  people  down — do  you  s'pose  it  would 
be  hot,  Cousin  ?  " 

"No,"  Naomi  said  hastily.  She  was  afraid  she 
would  frighten  him,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  felt  a 
little  creepy  about  those  Dore  manholes  herself. 
But  Quincy  was  not  frightened,  it  appeared,  only 
hungry  for  sensations. 

"  Maybe  there'll  be  legs  sticking  out  of  the  holes, 
anyway,"  he  mused  hopefully.  "  Oh,  Cousin,  here's 
a  splendid  lawn !  " 

They  both  forgot  all  about  their  unholy  quest, 
because  about  this  time  they  happened  on  a  gorgeous 
house  with  beds  and  beds  of  nasturtiums  for  all  who 
sought,  and  a  great  bushful  of  red-and-yellow  chry- 


224  DEVIL'S  HALL 

santhemums  which  Naomi  robbed  so  valiantly  that 
next  day  there  were  two  vases  full  for  Mother  and 
lots  left  for  Father's  sick  people.  After  that  Quincy 
wanted  to  play  he  was  a  train  of  cars,  all  up  and 
down  the  big  empty  porch,  using  the  pillars  for 
stations.  Naomi  never  could  do  anything  with 
Cousin  Quincy,  so  she  sauntered  back  into  the 
garden,  not  to  waste  time,  and  played  that  she  was 
a  princess  with  golden  curls.  Every  little  while  she 
would  try  to  detach  Cousin  Quincy  from  his  rail 
road,  but  it  was  nearly  dark  before  she  could  coax 
him  to  come  away  from  the  porch  and  on  home.  It 
was  quicker  to  go  on  and  across  the  lower  bridge 
than  to  go  back. 

But  all  the  big,  empty,  shadowy  houses  looked 
suddenly  as  if  they  didn't  like  them,  and  would  do 
frightening  things  to  them  if  they  could — and  as  if 
perhaps  they  could.  Naomi  caught  Quincy's  hand, 
and  he  held  hers  tight,  and  they  hurried  a  little 
faster  and  began  to  talk  about  all  the  warm,  home, 
lighted  things  they  knew,  the  fire  and  supper  and 
the  collie,  and  what  Mother  would  say.  They  did 
not  talk  any  more,  either  of  them,  about  Devil's 
Hall.  But  all  the  empty  houses  looked  as  if  they 
might — just  might — and  it  got  relentlessly  darker, 
and  they  hurried  on  a  little  faster  still.  It  felt  as  if 


DEVIL'S  HALL  225 

Mother  and  the  fire  and  the  collie  were  hundreds  of 
miles  away,  instead  of  a  scant  half-mile. 

They  were  almost  to  the  bridge  when  Quincy 
gave  a  tug  away  from  Naomi's  hand,  and  went  on 
alone  in  brave  masculine  independence.  Naomi 
looked  the  way  he  was  looking,  and  then  she  felt 
all  cheered  up,  and  as  if  Mother  and  the  bread-and- 
milk  were  certainties,  not  vague  incredible  hopes. 
There  was  a  lovely  white  stucco  house  sitting  up 
gallantly  between  two  darkened  ones,  all  lighted  like 
the  parsonage  when  there  was  a  sociable.  Naomi 
took  a  long  look  and  prepared  to  go  on  again.  But 
not  so  Quincy. 

"  Want-a-drink-o'-water !  "  he  proclaimed,  making 
straight  for  the  drive  of  the  lighted  house.  Naomi 
liked  the  bright  lights  as  much  as  he  did,  but  she 
wanted  to  get  home. 

"  Aw,  no  you  don't,  Quincy,"  she  coaxed.  "  No 
you  don't.  You  just  think  you  do.  Don't  you  want 
to  get  back  and  have  hot  cocoa  and  bread-and-milk  ? 
You  don't  want  a  drink." 

"  Want-a-drink-o'-water !  "  insisted  Quincy  un 
convinced,  showing  signs  of  sitting  down  flat.  So 
she  gave  in,  and  followed  him  up  the  drive,  up  the 
steps  to  the  door,  nearly  as  frightened  of  the  asking 
for  a  drink  as  she  would  have  been  of  the  dark. 


226  DEVIL'S  HALL 

She  was  shy  and  besides  she  thought  the  people 
might  take  them  for  beggars  and  be  cross  to  them. 

Quincy  found  the  bell  and  held  it  a  long  time. 
Naomi  could  feel  him  straightening  out  his  company 
manners  there  in  the  dark.  Cousin  Quincy  had 
been  born  with  a  complete  set  of  perfect  manners 
which  he  could  use  whenever  they  were  needed. 
Naomi  was  very  proud  of  them,  because  her  own 
were  painfully  handmade,  and  sometimes  buried  by 
shyness  when  she  wanted  them  the  worst. 

The  door  opened. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Cousin  Quincy,  with 
his  yellow-brown  curls  scarcely  l^vel  to  the  door 
knob  as  he  took  off  his  cap  with  a  sweep,  "  but  can  I 
ask  you  for  a  drink-o'-water  ?  " 

The  big  gray-haired  Irish  maid  at  the  door  looked 
down  on  him  with  affectionate  admiration.  People 
generally  did  look  at  little  Cousin  Quincy  that  way, 
till  they  had  charge  of  him  for  a  day. 

"  Ye  can  indeed,"  she  said,  "  and  the  little  girl 
with  ye.  Come  into  the  hall,  childer,  it's  cold 
standin'  outside." 

"  I  am  Pastor  Ainslie's  little  nephew,  and  this  is 
Naomi,"  volunteered  Quincy  sedately  as  they  slid 
thankfully  into  the  warm  brightness. 

"A  priest's  childer,  is  it?"  she  said,  by  which 


DEVIL'S  HALL  227 

Naomi  knew  that  she  was  a  Roman  Catholic  and 
felt  sorry  for  her.  She  did  not  say  anything, 
though.  It's  rude  to  try  to  convert  people  unless 
you  know  them  quite  well,  and  she  was  shy,  besides. 
"  Well,  priest's  children  or  no,  ye've  pretty  manners 
and  a  pretty  face,  darlin'.  Come  in,  both  of  ye,  an' 
get  yer  drink." 

But  before  they  could  follow  her  a  crowd  of 
people  cascaded  from  the  dining-room  (the  children 
could  see  the  table  back  of  them)  and  out  into  the 
hall  where  they  stood. 

Of  course,  Mother  was  the  prettiest  lady  in  the 
world.  Father  said  so,  and  you  could  see  it  for 
yourself  besides.  But  the  Big  Girl  who  was  running 
out  of  the  dining-room  in  the  middle  of  ever  so 
many  big  boys  was  undoubtedly  a  more  exciting  per 
son  to  look  at.  They  placed  her  as  a  Big  Girl,  not 
a  grown-up  lady,  because  she  was  running,  and  be 
cause  all  her  beautiful  doll-colored  hair  was  all  in 
a  twist  down  her  back  with  hairpins  sticking  in  it, 
as  if  she  had  been  trying  to  pin  it  up,  they  thought, 
and  couldn't.  She  had  bright  pink  cheeks  and  very 
red  lips  and  her  eyelashes  were  like  a  doll's  too,  all 
flary  and  black,  with  funny,  pretty  bead  things  on 
the  ends.  Naomi  felt  a  little  hurt  to  think  Mother 
hadn't  any  beads  on  her  lashes.  In  between  the  Big 


228  DEVIL'S  HALL 

Girl  was  very  white,  nose  and  forehead  and  chin. 
But  her  face  looked  like  a  little  girl's  somehow, 
underneath;  not  as  grown-up  as  Quincy's  looked, 
even,  when  he  was  thinking  hard.  The  boys  with 
her  were  dressed  all  sorts  of  mussy-ways,  two  in 
sweaters  and  one  in  a  shirtwaist  and  trousers,  and 
one  in  a  dress-suit.  But  the  Big  Girl  had  on  the 
sort  of  a  dress  Naomi  had  always  intended  to  buy 
herself  when  she  was  a  Big  Girl,  too.  It  was  pink 
satin  with  a  low  neck  and  short  sleeves  and  a  trail, 
and — yes — even  to  the  pink  satin  slippers  her  dream 
was  complete!  Just  that  way  she  had  always  been 
going  to  come  down  to  breakfast  when  she  was  old 
enough  and  had  money.  She  was  glad  somebody 
else  had  that  much  sense.  It  always  seemed  strange 
to  her  that  Mother  never  should. 

"  Cousin! "  whispered  Quincy  loudly,  pulling 
Naomi's  dress.  "  Are  they  a  Bible  Class?  " 

Naomi  couldn't  see  why  they  all  laughed  as  loud 
as  ever  they  could.  It  wasn't  polite,  and  besides, 
she  had  been  wondering  herself  whether  they  were  a 
Bible  Class  or  a  Brotherhood.  You  had  to  keep 
Bible  Classes  and  Brotherhoods  up  with  Sociables 
or  they  fell  off — anybody  knew  that  much.  (Naomi 
never  found  out  where  they  fell  to,  though  she  used 
to  wonder. ) 


DEVIL'S  HALL  229 

"  Sure,  we're  a  Bible  Class,  kiddies,"  said  the  big 
one  in  the  red  sweater,  the  one  who  should  have 
shaved  before  he  came.  "We're  Dimples'  Bible 
Class — aren't  we,  Dimples?  " 

Everybody  laughed  again,  and  looked  at  the  Big 
Girl,  but  she  only  gave  them  all  little  pushes  and 
slaps,  and  then  made  a  swoop  and  hugged  Quincy. 

"Aren't  they  the  sweetest?"  she  said;  and  her 
little-girl  face  looked  younger  than  ever.  "  Who 
are  you,  children?  Where'd  they  come  from, 
Honoria?" 

"  They  came  askin'  a  drink  for  the  boy,  Miss 
Dorothy,"  the  big  gray-haired  maid  answered 
shortly. 

"Aren't  they  dears?"  said  the  Big  Girl  again, 
keeping  her  arm  around  Quincy,  who  bore  it 
politely,  only  stiffening  a  little.  "  What  are  your 
first  names,  little  girl?  " 

Naomi  told  her.  "  And  if  Quincy  could  just  have 
a  drink  we  won't  bother  you  any  more,"  she  said 
worriedly,  for  she  could  see  the  dark  through  the 
door-lace,  racing  to  get  things  black  all  over,  before 
Quincy  got  his  drink.  "  He  would  come  in." 

"  So  he  shall  come  in,"  said  the  Big  Girl,  un 
buttoning  his  reefer  quickly,  and  throwing  it  and 
his  cap  on  the  floor,  then  starting  on  Naomi.  "  He 


230  DEVIL'S  HALL 

shall  have  a  drink  and  some  cakies  and  be  my  little 
sweetheart!  Get  the  bowl  and  the  glasses  now, 
Nora  dear,  and  the  cakes,  and  bring  them  straight 
into  the  parlor  this  minute." 

Naomi  approved  of  that  Big  Girl.  She  was  doing 
something  else  she'd  always  wanted  to  do:  having 
things  when  you  wanted  them  instead  of  waiting  for 
the  proper  time.  And  all  you  wanted.  She  watched 
Quincy  and  Naomi  eat  the  cakes  the  way  you  watch 
a  kitten  drink  milk.  They  were  beautiful  pink  and 
yellow  confectionery  cakes,  the  very-dear  kind 
Mother  couldn't  afford.  Then  she  got  Quincy  his 
drink  herself.  He  only  took  a  tiny  bit.  Naomi 
had  known  perfectly  well  he  wasn't  thirsty,  only 
wanted  to  get  in  out  of  the  dark! 

"Don't  you  want  some  of  this,  too?"  said  the 
Big  Girl,  running  over  to  the  big  glass  bowl  Honoria 
had  brought  in,  all  full  of  red  lemonade.  Indeed 
they  did,  both  of  them.  It  was  much  better  than 
water,  or  even  cocoa.  It  had  a  lovely,  unexpected 
taste.  After  they  had  it  Naomi  felt  suddenly  very 
quiet,  and  like  going  into  a  corner  and  sitting  down 
and  watching  everything.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if 
she  could  hear  and  see  and  smell  everything  much 
better,  only  it  was  all  like  a  picture,  somehow,  not 
real  exactly.  So  she  sat  down  on  a  hassock  off  in 


DEVIL'S  HALL  231 

the  corner  and  watched  the  picture  go  on,  especially 
the  Big  Girl  and  Quincy.  They  seemed  to  like  each 
other  very  much.  The  red  lemonade  hadn't  made 
him  quiet  or  sleepy  at  all,  which  was  queer,  because 
it  was  getting  near  his  bedtime.  His  cheeks  were  all 
flushed,  almost  as  pink  as  the  Big  Girl's,  only  a 
different  color,  somehow,  and  his  brown  eyes  were 
like  stars.  He  and  the  Big  Girl  were  chattering 
away  to  each  other  with  all  the  boys  around  them. 
Some  were  standing  and  smoking,  and  some  were 
on  the  floor  smoking,  and  two  were  smoking  on  the 
arms  of  the  Big  Girl's  chair,  with  their  own  arms 
back  of  her  close. 

One  of  them  came  over  and  began  to  talk  to 
Naomi,  but  he  talked  as  if  she  were  a  ridiculous 
little  thing,  and  she  didn't  feel  like  bothering  to 
speak,  somehow.  So  she  didn't  answer  much,  and 
he  went  away,  and  Naomi  kept  on  watching  things 
happen  like  a  big  talking  picture-book.  The  Big 
Girl  had  one  of  the  boys  start  the  phonograph,  and 
then  they  danced  in  a  sort  of  ring,  going  two  ways 
and  changing  hands,  some  of  the  boys  with  hand 
kerchiefs  on  their  arms,  making  ridiculous  noises 
and  pretending  to  be  girls.  That  was  very  funny. 
The  Big  Girl  had  Quincy  dance,  too,  and  showed 
him  how.  Then  they  sat  down  again,  and  Quincy 


232  DEVIL'S  HALL 

sang  for  them.  He  wouldn't  always  do  that  for 
people.  He  sang  "  I'm  a  Little  Pilgrim  "  and  "  A 
Kitten  Once  to  Its  Mother  Said." 

While  he  was  in  the  middle  of  the  singing,  going 
ahead  as  fast  and  as  loud  as  you  could  possibly 
want,  and  they  clapping  their  hands  and  laughing  at 
him,  another  boy  came  in.  He  slid  in  softly,  as  if 
he  didn't  belong  there  as  much  as  the  rest  did.  He 
was  thin  and  a  little  tired-looking,  with  eyes  as  big 
as  Naomi's  and  Quincy's,  only  set  way  deep.  He 
sat  down  quietly  a  little  behind  the  rest.  The  Big 
Girl  didn't  make  a  fuss  over  him  the  way  she  had 
over  the  others.  She  jerked  her  shoulder  at  him  as 
if  she  was  cross,  and  began  to  talk  very  fast  and  low 
to  another  boy  to  make  him  laugh. 

The  boy  closest  to  Naomi  snickered  a  little. 

"There's  the  Master-of-the-House  again,"  he 
said,  low,  and  the  one  he  said  it  to  snickered  too. 
So  Naomi  supposed  that  was  another  joke,  like  the 
Bible  Class. 

Quincy  finished  singing.  He  had  done  splendidly, 
as  loud  as  loud,  and  never  a  word  forgotten.  Naomi 
was  proud  of  him. 

"  Well,  you  are  a  clever  little  devil,"  said  one  of 
the  boys,  reaching  out  and  patting  at  him.  Quincy 
jerked  away. 


DEVIL'S  HALL  233 

"  That  a-minds  me,"  he  said  very  quickly  so  they 
wouldn't  notice  the  jerk. 

"  What  a-minds  you,  you  cunning  thing?  "  asked 
the  Big  Girl. 

"  About  the  devil.  I  want  to  find  Devil's  Hall. 
So  does  Naomi.  It's  up  here.  Naomi  heard  a 
deacon  tell  her  farver." 

Everybody  began  to  laugh  again,  very  loud,  as 
if  what  he  said  was  awfully  funny,  funnier  than 
about  the  Bible  Class. 

"What's  it  look  like,  kiddy?"  asked  the  boy  in 
the  red  sweater. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Quincy.  "  Naomi  fought  it 
was  like  Pilgrim's  Progress,  with  little  pointy  flames 
under  the  door.  I  fought  it  was  like  my  Purgletory 
Book.  That  has  holes  and  fire  and  legs  sticking  up, 
and  curly  devils  poking  in  the  legs  wiv  forks.  An' 
there's  people  in  it,  married.  She's  only  nineteen, 
but  she  has  riff-raffs  very  badly.  And  he  has  her 
purse,  wiv  all  her  money  in  it,  so  all  he  cares  is  to 
bun  around  town,"  finished  Quincy,  repeating 
Naomi  conscientiously.  "How  do  you  bun,  Miss 
Dimples?  "  he  broke  off  to  ask  the  Big  Girl.  "  Is 
it  nice?" 

But  the  Big  Girl  had  been  biting  hard  to  keep  her 
mouth  stiff  all  the  time  Quincy  was  telling  about  it. 


234  DEVIL'S  HALL 

When  he  stopped  she  just  let  go.  She  turned  and 
gave  the  two  boys  on  the  arms  of  her  chair  two, 
quick,  cross,  temper-pushes  and  jerked  herself 
around  so  her  face  was  against  the  velvet  chair- 
back,  and  suddenly  cried  and  cried  and  cried.  Her 
shoulders,  all  white  out  of  the  lovely  pink  satin 
gown,  shook  hard,  and  her  long  rope  of  doll- 
colored  hair  came  more  untwisted  and  hung  down 
nearly  loose. 

Then  suddenly  Naomi  found  why  the  sweater- 
boy  had  called  the  tired  one  the  Master-of-the- 
House.  It  was  because  he  was.  He  walked  up  by 
her  chair  so  fast  you  scarcely  saw  him  get  there, 
into  the  middle  of  the  boys,  right  by  Quincy,  who 
was  watching  and  looking  uncomfortable  but  inter 
ested.  But  that  was  the  way  they  all  looked. 

The  Master-of-the-House  dropped  his  hand 
down  quick  on  the  Big  Girl's  shoulder. 

"  Go  home,  you  fellows,"  he  said  in  a  quick,  deep- 
down  sort  of  a  way  Naomi  thought  was  rude.  He 
stood  there  straight  and  stiff  with  his  eyes  burrow 
ing  way  into  them.  He  kept  on  standing  and  she 
kept  on  crying,  and  nobody  said  anything,  but  began 
to  slide  out  in  the  mousy-quietest  way. 

That  is,  all  but  one.  The  big  boy  in  the  red 
sweater  stayed.  He  laughed  a  little. 


DEVIL'S  HALL  235 

"  Go,  if  you  please,"  said  the  Master-of-the- 
House.  It  sounds  polite,  but  it  wasn't,  the  way  he 
said  it.  The  sweater-boy  stuck  his  hands  in  his 
pockets. 

"Waiting  for  Dimples,"  he  said  impudently. 
"  She's  going  for  a  little  trip  with  me  tonight. 
Might  as  well  break  it  to  you  now  as  any  time. 
Come  on,  honey.  He  wants  your  house  to  him 
self." 

"Dorothy!"  said  the  Master-of-the-House  as  if 
something  had  hurt  him. 

"  No,  no,  no !  "  she  said. 

Naomi  never  knew  which  she  said  it  to.  The 
sweater-boy  ran  over  to  her  and  dropped  down  by 
the  chair  and  began  to  talk  fast.  He  looked  very 
handsome,  but  black-catty,  somehow.  "  Come, 
honey,"  he  said.  "  Come  now — what  do  you 
care?" 

"  No — no — I  won't  after  all !  "  she  said  from 
against  the  chair-back. 

"  He  doesn't  care  for  you,"  he  said.  "  I  told 
you.  He  never  had  any  use  for  anybody  but  Marge 
Stuart.  He  married  you  to  get  back  at  her.  I 
told  you !  "  he  said. 

She  gave  a  sort  of  little  moan  at  that. 

"  I'll  go — I'll  go ! "  she  said,  and  started  to  get  up. 


236  DEVIL'S  HALL 

But  the  Master's  hand  on  her  shoulder  was  hold 
ing  her  down. 

"You  brute!"  said  the  Master-of-the-House. 
"  Is  that  the  way  you  did  it?  Get  out  of  this  place 
before  I  throw  you  out ! " 

The  sweater-boy  lifted  himself  and  started  to  go, 
for  anybody  would  unless  they  were  very  brave,  the 
way  the  Master  looked.  But  he  stopped  at  the  door. 

"  It's  true  enough,"  he  said  sulkily.  "  And  you 
might  as  well  let  her  go  now  as  any  time.  She  needs 
somebody  to  be  good  to  her,  poor  kid ! " 

"  You'd  better  go,"  said  the  Master-of-the-House 
softly  and  coming  up  to  him  close. 

So  he  went  and  the  door  clicked  shut  behind  him. 

The  Master-of-the-House  came  back  and  stood 
over  her  again. 

"  It  isn't  true !  "  he  said. 

"  Isn't  it,  Laurie?  "  she  said  from  the  chair-back. 
"  They  all  said  so — they  told  me — all  the  time ! 
Girls  and  all.  If  it's  true  I  shall  go.  Not  with 
Jack,  maybe,  but  I'll  go !  Oh,  Laurie,  I  didn't  mind 
when  I  thought  it  was  the  money.  Lots  of  people 

marry  for  money.  But  Marge "  She  began  to 

sob  softly  again. 

He  looked  as  if  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  do 
something  dreadful.  He  started  to  speak  twice  be- 


DEVIL'S  HALL  237 

fore  he  could.  At  last  he  did  speak,  in  a  queer, 
stiff  voice. 

"  I  guess  I'd  better  tell  the  truth,  Dorothy.  It 
wasn't  the  money.  It  was  Margaret  Stuart.  But 
oh,  Dorothy,  it — it  isn't,  any  more!  It  is  you. 
Dorothy,  couldn't  you  forgive  me,  or  just — stay 
with  me  a  little  longer,  and  think  it  over?  Just  a 
little  while !  Because — I  don't  suppose  you  can  be 
lieve  it — but  it  is  you,  now." 

She  didn't  say  anything.  But  she  slipped  her 
hand  out  where  his  could  get  it  if  he  wanted  it. 

He  did.  He  almost  pounced  on  it,  and  held  it 
tight  with  both  his  hands.  And  she  held  tight,  too, 
and  cried  some  more. 

"  If  you  really — cared !  "  she  said,  all  muffled  still. 

You  never  saw  anything  so  surprised  as  he 
looked. 

"  Dorothy !  "  he  said.  "  You  don't — mean — you 
could — care  for  me !  " 

He  dropped  down  on  his  knees  beside  the  chair, 
and  reached  out  and  pulled  her  head  round  to  his 
shoulder  instead  of  the  chair-back. 

She  kept  right  on  crying  while  he  turned  her,  and 
Naomi  saw  her  face,  all  screwed  up,  and  more  like  a 
little  girl's  than  ever.  One  cheek  wasn't  pink  any 
more,  and  the  other  was  all  cry-streaks.  But  the 


238  DEVIL'S  HALL 

Master-of-the-House  didn't  mind.  He  only  kept 
on  saying  over  and  over — 

"  My  poor  little  girl !  My  poor  little  girl !  Did 
you  care  as  much  as  that  ?  "  and  patting  her  shoul 
der  steadily  as  if  she  was  a  baby. 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  want  me ! "  she  said. 

Of  course  it  all  came  out  mixed  with  crying,  but 
Naomi  could  tell  what  she  meant,  and  so  could  the 
Master-of-the-House.  "  I  thought  you  didn't  care 
and  I  tried  to  make  you  care  and  you  wouldn't,  and 
I  thought  you  didn't  want  me !  " 

She  said  that  over  and  over  again,  too.  Naomi 
could  see  his  arms  pull  round  her  so  tight  they 
nearly  sank  in. 

"  Want  you !  "  he  said.  "  Because  I  hadn't  any 
business  to  say  anything — because  it  was  all  your 
money ! " 

They  both  began  to  talk  at  once,  telling  each 
other  that  they  did  want  each  other.  They  were 
not  paying  any  attention  to  Quincy,  so  he  had 
strayed  off  to  a  table  where  there  was  another  plate 
of  the  lovely  cakes,  and  was  eating  lots  more  with 
out  asking.  Then  he  yawned  and  looked  around  for 
a  sofa.  Naomi  knew  what  that  meant.  If  Quincy 
once  got  to  sleep  you  couldn't  waken  him  till  morn 
ing.  You  had  to  walk  him  to  bed  that  way. 


DEVIL'S  HALL  239 

But  it  was  so  hard  for  Naomi  to  move  and  stop 
the  far-off  picture-book  feeling  that  he  was  actually 
on  the  sofa  and  nearly  fast  asleep  before  she  could 
get  over  to  him  and  pry  him  off  and  walk  him  to 
the  hall  door. 

She  looked  back  a  little  as  they  marched  out. 
The  Big  Girl  and  the  Master-of-the-House  were 
still  holding  tight  and  saying,  "  I  do !  I  do !  I  do !  " 
and  "  Never !  Never !  Never !  "  They  must  have 
wanted  each  other  very  much. 

Looking  over  her  shoulder  that  way,  Naomi  ran 
Quincy  almost  straight  into  Honoria,  who  must 
have  been  listening.  Maids  do,  Mother  had  told 
her.  They  don't  know  why  they  shouldn't.  She 
had  been  crying,  too,  till  there  was  a  big  cata- 
corner  piece  of  her  apron  all  wet  and  crumply. 
These  people  struck  Naomi  as  being  different  from 
the  ones  she  usually  saw.  They  cried  more.  But 
you're  always  coming  across  new  kinds  of  people 
when  you're  seven. 

"  You're  the  only  grown-up  person  here, 
aren't  you?"  Naomi  asked  her,  as  nicely  as  she 
could. 

Honoria  seemed  very  easily  surprised. 

"  It's  heaven's  own  truth,"  she  said.  "  I'm  the 
only  grown  person  that  is  in  the  house  or  iver  was, 


240  DEVIL'S  HALL 

unless  it  plight  be  yer  two  little  old-fashioned 
selves." 

"Would  you  mind  taking  us  home,  then?" 
Naomi  said.  "  Quincy  won't  wake  up  again  to 
night,  and  it  takes  somebody  big  to  walk  him  over 
the  curbs  and  round  the  corners  when  he's  asleep." 

"  Take  ye  home  ?  "  said  Honoria.  "  Av  course 
I'll  take  ye  home.  Tis  a  small  thing  to  be  doin'  fer 
a  guardeen  angel  an'  his  sister !  " 

She  buttoned  Quincy  expertly  into  his  reefer  and 
dropped  his  cap  on  just  right,  while  Naomi  put  her 
own  hat  and  jacket  on.  Then  Honoria  got  her  own 
things,  and  took  Quincy  by  the  shoulder  and  Naomi 
by  the  hand,  and  they  started  for  home. 

When  the  outside  air  struck  Quincy  he  woke  a 
little. 

"Want  go  Devil's  Hall!"  he  said  crossly. 
"  Want  see  legs  stickin'  up !  " 

"  Whisht,  darlin' !  "  said  Honoria,  guiding  him 
down  the  steps  as  cleverly  as  if  she  had  walked  little 
boys  in  their  sleep  all  her  life.  "  I  don't  think  ye'll 
iver  see  any  Devil's  Hall  over  here,  ner  any  legs 
stickin'  up,  foriver  an'  iver  amen.  An*  ye've  only 
yersilf  to  blame." 

Naomi  did  not  see  how  he  was  to  blame  at  all. 
She  was  going  to  tell  Honoria  so.  But  as  she  picked 


DEVIL'S  HALL  241 

him  up  and  kissed  him  hard  as  soon  as  she  said  it, 
she  evidently  did  not  think  he  was  so  very  bad.  So 
Naomi  held  to  her  skirt  and  said  nothing  at  all. 

But  though  they  looked  and  looked  the  next  time 
they  went  up  that  way,  Quincy  and  Naomi,  and 
Quincy  called  on  Honoria  and  got  to  be  great 
friends  with  her  by  and  by,  she  was  quite  right. 
They  never  did  find  any  Devil's  Hall. 


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